The security guard’s voice trembled with undeniable panic when he finally connected with me on my mobile phone.
“Ma’am, you really need to get down to level three of the parking structure immediately.”
I was seven months pregnant and still clutching the warm ultrasound photograph of my daughter’s face as I walked out of the maternity clinic doors.
Only ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the glowing monitor, listening to the doctor reassure me that everything about the pregnancy looked perfect.
By the time I rounded the corner into the parking garage, that entire sense of security had vanished into thin air.
My metallic blue SUV looked like it had been shredded by a furious mob.
Every single window had been shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds of glass, and all four tires lay flat against the concrete floor.
Dark red paint streamed down the windshield like a gruesome warning of violence.
Someone had carved jagged words into the metal hood so deeply that the steel curled back along the edges.
Homewrecker, it read, followed by Baby trap, and finally, He is mine.
For a long moment, I simply forgot how to breathe as the reality crashed over me.
Then, my eyes landed on the expensive baby car seat sitting in the back row.
Or rather, I looked at the mangled heap that remained of it.
