Chapter 2 - The Arrival
The first responding officer was a young woman with sharp eyes and a name tag reading Ruiz. She took one look at my shattered windows, dropped her gaze to the distinct swell of my seven-month belly, and her professional expression instantly hardened into protective steel.
“Is there someone you believe did this, ma’am?” she asked, stepping close to offer a steadying hand on my elbow.
“Yes,” I said, swiping a tear angrily from my cheek.
“Can you tell me who?”
“My husband’s mistress.”
Officer Ruiz paused, her pen hovering over her notepad. “Does your husband know?”
“He just defended her over the phone.”
That earned a sharp, knowing glance between Ruiz and her older male partner. Within twenty minutes, the entire parking bay on Level Three was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. Flashbulbs popped rhythmically as an evidence technician photographed the scene from every angle. The wooden baseball bat was carefully lifted with gloved hands and slid into a clear plastic biohazard tube, the smear of Rosewood Kiss lipstick glistening under the harsh overhead bulbs.
I stood shivering in my light coat, refusing the EMT’s offer of a thermal blanket. I wanted to feel the cold. I wanted it to numb the burning rage in my chest.
Then, tires screeched on the ramp.
A sleek black Mercedes SUV cut around the corner, pulling up hard against the police barricade. The driver’s door slammed shut.
It was Michael.
And stepping out from the passenger side, smoothing down an expensive cream designer blazer, was Vanessa Cole. She wore enormous dark sunglasses that hid half her face, but I didn't need to see her eyes to know she was smirking. And on her lips was the unmistakable, glossy sheen of Rosewood Kiss.
My husband rushed toward me, his face twisted in panic—not for my safety, but for his own exposure.
“What the hell did you tell them?” he demanded, closing the distance between us before Officer Ruiz stepped firmly into his path, blocking him.
Not Are you okay? Not Is the baby alright? Same script, different act.
Vanessa stayed several steps behind him, walking with a slow, deliberate stride. She reached out one manicured hand, resting it delicately—almost theatrically—over the small curve of her stomach.
I stared at her hand. Then I stared at her abdomen.
Michael saw where my eyes were fixed. The color drained entirely from his face, leaving him looking sickly gray under the fluorescent glare.
Vanessa removed her sunglasses, letting them slide down the bridge of her nose. She looked at me with a sickening blend of pity and triumph.
“She deserves to know, Michael,” Vanessa said smoothly, her voice carrying across the quiet garage.
Michael whispered, horror choking his voice, “Vanessa, shut up.”
“What?” she tossed her head back, addressing the entire audience of police officers and security guards. “We’re already here. She’s going to find out eventually anyway.”
She unbuttoned the top button of her cream blazer and pushed it open.
She was pregnant.
I stared, my mind refusing to compute the geometry of what I was seeing. She was maybe four months along. While I had been sitting at home folding newborn onesies and rubbing cocoa butter into my growing belly, believing my husband was working late at architectural site meetings in the Loop, he had been planting another seed elsewhere.
My husband’s mistress was carrying my husband’s child while I stood seven months pregnant with his daughter.
Something deep inside me didn't break. It went dead silent. The last fragile thread of my grief snapped, replaced by an absolute, terrifying clarity.
Officer Ruiz moved closer to me, sensing my sudden stillness. “Mrs. Bennett, do you want to sit down in my cruiser? You look faint.”
“No,” I said, my voice sounding steadier than it had all morning.
Vanessa glanced casually at the ruined SUV, her gaze lingering on the jagged hole in the windshield.
“That’s awful,” she murmured, though her lips curved into a smug little smile that almost survived the length of her sentence.
I looked from her face down to the evidence bag resting on the hood of the police cruiser, containing the bat with her lipstick smeared across the wood. Then I looked back into her mocking eyes.
“You really should have wiped the handle, Vanessa,” I said softly.
Her smile vanished instantly.
Michael stepped between us, puffing out his chest like a cornered animal. “Enough! This is a private family matter. Officer, my wife is having a hysterical episode. She’s making wild accusations against my colleague—.”
Before Michael could finish his manufactured excuse, a heavy second police vehicle rumbled up the ramp, its engine idling with deep authority.
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An older officer emerged from the driver’s seat. He wore a crisp dark uniform with silver captain’s bars gleaming on his shoulders, denoting a rank far above the patrol officers on the scene. His hair was iron-gray, his posture military-straight, and his eyes carried the heavy, weathered look of a man who had seen every variety of human ugliness and survived to tell the tale.
He introduced himself as Captain Nathan Briggs.
