I had imagined my baby shower would be soft yellow balloons, buttercream cake, and my six-year-old daughter,

Arthur collided with Vanessa before she could pull the trigger.

The gun discharged with a deafening, concussive roar in the enclosed concrete space. The bullet struck the brick chimney above the furnace, showering the room in red dust and sharp mortar fragments.

Vanessa shrieked, clawing at Arthur’s eyes with her acrylic nails, but the sheer panic of an old man fighting for his life threw her off balance. They crashed against the foundation wall, wrestling for control of the weapon.

“Claire! The stairs! Go!” Rachel screamed, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the pine steps.

A sharp, violent pain tore through my lower abdomen—a contraction so intense and sudden it buckled my knees. I gasped, clutching my belly, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs.

“No, no, no, not now,” I whimpered, fighting against the agony radiating through my pelvis. The stress, the terror, the physical shock had triggered active labor.

“Claire, come on!” Rachel urged, hooking her arm beneath my shoulder, hauling me toward the staircase.

Behind us, Mark was scrambling to his feet from the pile of scattered cash, his hand clutched against his bleeding jaw. His eyes caught mine—wild, panicked, completely unmoored from reality. He snatched up the yellow crowbar from the floor.

“Stop them!” Mark yelled, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete. “Vanessa, don't let them out! If Claire gets to the street, she’ll call the cops!”

Vanessa managed to wrench her arm free from Arthur’s grip. She brought the heavy steel frame of the pistol down across my father’s forehead. Arthur collapsed onto the concrete floor with a wet thud, motionless, blood pouring from a split above his eyebrow.

Vanessa turned toward us, her eyes dilated and manic. She raised the gun, pointing it straight at Rachel’s head.

“Don't take another step,” Vanessa commanded, her voice dropping into a terrifying, gravelly register. “Not one.”

Rachel froze on the third step, shielding my body with hers.

“Vanessa, look at her!” Rachel yelled, pointing down at me. “She’s in labor! Her water is breaking! If you don't let us out of here, she and the baby will die!”

Vanessa looked down. Between my sneakers, a pool of clear fluid was spreading across the dusty pine step.

For a single second, I thought I saw a flicker of human hesitation in Vanessa’s eyes. But then she looked at the scattered cash, at the dead weight beneath the blue tarp, and at my father’s unconscious body.

The hesitation vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating eyes of a cornered predator who knew she had already crossed the point of no return.

“That’s unfortunate timing for Claire,” Vanessa said quietly, walking slowly toward the base of the stairs. “Because none of you are walking out of this basement alive.”

“Vanessa, wait,” Mark stammered, stepping up behind her, looking down at me with genuine horror creeping into his face. “We didn't talk about this. You said we were just going to take the drive and lock them down here until we cleared the state! You didn't say anything about killing Claire!”

“Use your brain, Mark!” Vanessa snarled, not taking her eyes off me. “Lily already told Claire about the basement! Arthur wrote her a confession note! The minute Claire walks out that door, we have a nationwide APB for attempted murder, kidnapping, and Thomas Vance’s homicide! The only way we survive this is if this house catches fire tonight.”

Mark’s breath caught in his throat. “A fire?”

“An unfortunate gas explosion,” Vanessa whispered, her lips curling into a sick, twisted smile. “An old furnace leak. A tragic accident that claims Arthur, Claire, and Rachel. By the time the fire department sifts through the ashes, you and I will be boarding a private charter in Miami.”

“You’re insane,” I breathed, clutching the handrail, another wave of searing labor pain washing over me. “You’re a monster.”

“I’m a survivor,” Vanessa shot back. “Mark, tie Arthur to the support post. Then get the gasoline cans from the garden shed behind the stairs.”

Mark stood frozen. The crowbar trembled in his hands.

“Mark...” I wept, looking directly into my brother’s eyes, searching for any remnant of the boy who used to build treehouses with me, the little brother who used to cry when he scraped his knee. “Look at me, Mark. Look at your sister. Look at my belly. This is your nephew. Lily is your niece. You let her bleed on the floor today. Are you really going to burn us alive?”

“Shut up, Claire!” Vanessa barked, cocking the gun again. “Mark, get the gas! Now!”

Mark looked at Vanessa. Then he looked at me, sitting crumpled on the stairs, clutching my belly, crying in agony. His gaze shifted to Arthur, lying limp in his own blood against the furnace.

“I... I can't,” Mark whispered.

Vanessa turned her head slightly, her jaw tightening. “What did you say?”

“I said I can't do this, Vanessa!” Mark yelled, tears suddenly spilling down his bruised cheeks. “This is murder! It’s my sister! It’s my father!”

“You weak, pathetic coward,” Vanessa hissed.

In a movement so fast it seemed almost casual, Vanessa shifted her aim from me to Mark and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot tore through the cellar like a thunderclap.

Mark took a step backward, his eyes widening in pure, disbelieving shock. He looked down at his chest, where a dark crimson circle was rapidly blooming across the fabric of his white shirt.

The crowbar slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete.

“Vanessa...?” Mark gasped, coughing, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips.