Chapter 6 - THE RED LIGHTS
The drive to the hospital took Eric twenty minutes—twenty minutes of frantic, spiraling calculations.
He convinced himself that Claire would soften the moment he walked into the room. She always did. She was gentle, timid, and hated conflict. If he brought flowers, wept a little, blamed the immense stress of his work promotion, and apologized profusely, she would forgive him. She had to. They had a baby on the way.
He parked in the hospital’s garage, hurried through the glass automatic doors, and approached the main reception desk in the lobby.
“Claire Vance,” Eric said, smoothing down his hair and putting on his best frantic-husband face. “I’m her husband. What room is she in?”
The receptionist looked at her computer screen, typed in the name, and then paused. She looked up at Eric, her expression completely unreadable.
“Fourth floor. Room 412. High-Risk Maternity,” she said.
“Thank you,” Eric said, adjusting his suit jacket and hurrying toward the elevators.
When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, the hallway was quiet, dim, and smelled faintly of antiseptic. Eric walked down the corridor, checking the brass numbers beside each door.
408... 410... 412.
He stopped outside Room 412. He took a deep breath, composed his face into an expression of sheer worry and love, and reached for the door handle.
Before he could push it open, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out from the alcove beside the room, blocking the doorway entirely.
He was wearing a dark blue uniform, a heavy utility belt, and a badge that gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Officer Rodriguez.
“Can I help you, sir?” the officer asked, his hand resting casually near his hip.
Eric blinked, startled. “Uh, yes. I’m here to see my wife. Claire Vance. I’m Eric Vance.”
Officer Rodriguez didn't move an inch. He took out a small pocket notebook, flipped it open, and looked at Eric with a cold, professional glare.
“Eric Vance. Driver of a grey 2024 Audi sedan, license plate number KRT-882?”
Eric felt a sudden, sharp coldness bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Yes... why?”
“Mr. Vance,” Officer Rodriguez said, stepping closer, his voice carrying clearly down the silent hallway. “I need you to keep your hands where I can see them and step away from the door.”
“What? Why?!” Eric protested, his voice rising in volume. “I am her husband! I have a right to see my wife and my unborn child!”
The door to Room 412 creaked open.
Megan stepped out, holding a copy of a legal document. Behind her, sitting up in the hospital bed surrounded by heart monitors, was me.
Eric caught my eye through the opening.
“Claire!” Eric called out, his voice laced with desperate charm. “Claire, honey, thank God you’re okay! Your dad went crazy at the house—he wouldn't let me in! I was so worried about you!”
I looked at him across the threshold. For six years, I had shrunk under that voice. I had bent my life into shapes that suited his comfort. But looking at him now—standing in his tailored suit, pretending to care while a police officer stood between us—the illusion shattered completely.
I didn't say a word. I simply looked away and took my sister’s hand.
Megan stepped forward, handing a folded piece of paper to Officer Rodriguez.
“This is an emergency temporary protective order, signed an hour ago by the magistrate judge on duty,” Megan stated clearly. “Mr. Vance is not permitted within 500 feet of my sister.”
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Officer Rodriguez took the paper, checked the seal, and turned back to Eric.
“Mr. Vance, you are officially served,” the officer said calmly. “Furthermore, based on eyewitness testimony from a third party at the scene on Industrial Road, physical evidence of battery on the victim’s person, and the willful endangerment of a pregnant female, you are under arrest.”
