Chapter 3 - THE LIVING ROOM
Travis returned home three hours later.
I learned what happened from Mrs. Alvarez, the police report, and eventually the footage from our porch camera.
Deborah stepped out of the SUV first.
She was carrying four shopping bags.
Megan, Travis’s sister, carried three more.
My father-in-law Harold had a large electronics-store box tucked under one arm.
Travis came last.
He was laughing.
Then he saw the front door.
It was hanging crookedly from the damaged frame.
His smile disappeared.
“What the hell?”
Deborah stopped behind him.
“Were we robbed?”
Travis dropped one shopping bag and ran inside.
The living room looked like a disaster zone.
The sofa cushions were on the floor.
Medical wrappers covered the carpet.
An oxygen package lay beneath the coffee table.
One of the lamps had been knocked sideways.
A bloody towel had been sealed inside a transparent evidence bag.
The cushion where I had been lying was stained.
A police officer stood beside the fireplace.
Mrs. Alvarez stood near the broken door.
Travis stopped moving.
The color drained from his face.
“Claire?”
No one answered.
“Claire!”
He ran toward the hallway.
The officer stepped in front of him.
“Sir.”
“Where is my wife?”
“Are you Travis Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
The officer studied him.
“Your wife was transported to St. Matthew’s Medical Center.”
Travis swallowed.
“The babies?”
The officer did not answer.
That was when Travis’s knees hit the floor.
According to the report, he began repeating the same sentence.
“No.”
“No.”
“No.”
Deborah dropped her shopping bags.
A new leather handbag spilled onto the floor.
Mrs. Alvarez stared at it.
“That must have been worth it.”
Deborah’s eyes snapped toward her.
“Excuse me?”
Mrs. Alvarez pointed toward the sofa.
“She begged you people for a ride to the hospital.”
Harold immediately stepped forward.
“This is a private family matter.”
The officer looked at him.
“Not anymore.”
Travis stood.
“I need to go to the hospital.”
“You’ll have the opportunity.”
“What does that mean?”
The officer pulled out a small notebook.
“It means we have questions first.”
Deborah crossed her arms.
“She was having contractions.”
“That doesn’t mean she was dying.”
Mrs. Alvarez walked slowly toward her.
“She had a placental emergency.”
Deborah’s expression flickered.
“You don’t know that.”
“I spent thirty years delivering babies.”
Mrs. Alvarez’s voice shook with fury.
“If I had arrived ten minutes later, that woman could have died on your sofa.”
Nobody spoke.
Then the officer held up my phone.
“We also have a message sent by Mr. Morgan less than forty minutes before emergency services arrived.”
Travis stared at the screen.
He knew exactly which message.
Don’t start anything dramatic.
The officer looked at him.
“Sir, did your wife tell you she believed she was in labor before you left?”
May you like
Travis opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
