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The man in the basement doorway said my sister’s name.
“Lena.”
For one impossible second, I thought I was hallucinating.
My body was exhausted beyond anything I could describe. My skin felt too tight around my bones. Another contraction moved through my lower back, slow and brutal, and I curled instinctively around my stomach.
But the voice was real.
The man lowered his weapon completely and raised both hands where Marcus could see them.
“Lena sent us.”
Behind him, two more people entered.
One was a woman in a dark jacket carrying a medical bag. The other was a uniformed officer whose expression changed the instant he saw me behind the welded bars.
“Oh my God,” the woman whispered.
Marcus backed away.
“This is private property.”
The plainclothes officer looked at him.
“Step away from the cage.”
Marcus lifted both hands.
“My wife is mentally ill. She locked herself in there.”
Even half-conscious, I understood the absurdity.
The door had been welded shut.
Not locked.
Welded.
A bowl containing half a rotten apple sat outside the bars.
There was dried blood on the floor.
My wrists were raw.
My clothes were gone.
Marcus still tried.
“She’s dangerous when she gets like this.”
The uniformed officer moved toward him.
“Turn around.”
Marcus’s face changed.
Not panic yet.
Offense.
“How dare you come into my house without a warrant?”
The plainclothes officer answered:
“We had exigent circumstances based on a credible report that a pregnant woman was being held against her will and in medical danger.”
Another contraction hit.
I screamed.
The woman with the medical bag came to the cage.
“My name is Hannah. I’m a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?”
My lips barely moved.
“Claire.”
That was the first time I had heard my own name spoken kindly in weeks.
Hannah crouched.
“Claire, I need to get to you. Do you know how this cage opens?”
“It doesn’t.”
Marcus laughed.
“She’s being dramatic.”
The uniformed officer spun him toward the wall.
“Enough.”
Metal clicked.
Handcuffs.
Marcus finally panicked.
“Mom!”
Upstairs, feet moved.
Voices.
Someone shouted.
The plainclothes officer spoke into his radio.
“Basement victim located. Advanced pregnancy. Active bleeding. Cage door appears welded. Need fire-rescue cutting tools now.”
My heart hammered.
Hannah reached through the bars and touched my wrist.
“Claire, stay with me.”
“I’m in labor.”
“I know.”
“Baby—”
“We’re going to take care of both of you.”
That sentence almost broke me.
Take care.
For three weeks, care had been another word Marcus twisted.
He said starving me protected the baby because “fat babies get stuck.”
His mother said denying water would make me “grateful for every mouthful later.”
