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

The sound of the gunshot that took down my brother broke the paralysis gripping my body.

“No!” I screamed, but Rachel was already moving.

With a feral roar of adrenaline, Rachel launched herself down from the third step of the staircase, hurling the heavy steel Maglite flashlight straight at Vanessa’s face.

The heavy flashlight caught Vanessa squarely across the bridge of her nose with a sickening crunch.

Vanessa shrieked in agony, stumbling backward, her hands flying to her face as blood erupted from her broken nose. The semi-automatic pistol flew from her grip, skittering across the smooth concrete floor and sliding straight under the heavy cast-iron furnace.

“Claire, run!” Rachel screamed, tackling Vanessa around the waist and dragging her to the concrete floor.

The two women collided with violent fury. Vanessa, fueled by pure manic rage, scratched, bit, and clawed, but Rachel fought with the desperate ferocity of a woman protecting her best friend and an unborn child.

I hauled myself up the stairs using the wooden handrail, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached, fighting through a contraction that felt like my pelvis was splitting in two.

I reached the top landing. The heavy fire door was pulled shut, but the deadbolt wasn't engaged from this side. I threw my weight against it.

The door flew open, spilling me out onto the hardwood floor of my father’s closet.

I dragged myself out into the study, gasping for air, the room spinning in dizzying circles. On Arthur’s desk sat his landline phone. I reached up, dragged the receiver down by its coiled cord, and dialed 911 with trembling, bloody fingers.

“911, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher’s calm voice sounded like music from heaven.

“Officer down... shots fired... domestic hostage situation,” I gasped into the receiver, barely able to form words through the crushing labor pain. “424 Elmwood Drive. My sister-in-law has a gun. She just shot my brother. My water broke... please... hurry...”

“Ma’am, stay on the line! Units are already en route to that address! A neighbor reported a gunshot!”

From the closet behind me, a bone-chilling shriek cut through the air.

I turned.

Vanessa burst through the closet door.

Her face was a terrifying mask of blood and bruises. Her nose was crooked and leaking dark gore down her mouth and chin. In her hand, she wasn't holding the gun—she was gripping the heavy yellow steel crowbar that Mark had dropped.

Behind her, Rachel was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is the drive, Claire?” Vanessa hissed, stalking toward me through the lamplight of the study like a demon risen from hell. “Arthur told you where he hid it, didn't he? Where is the damn crypto drive?”

I backed away across the Persian rug, clutching the phone receiver against my chest like a shield. “I don't know what you’re talking about! The police are outside, Vanessa! Look out the window!”

In the distance, the faint, rising wail of multiple sirens echoed through the rainy night, growing louder with every passing second.

Vanessa froze, her bloody eyes darting toward the curtained windows.

“You ruined everything,” she whispered, her voice shaking with unhinged malice. “I was going to be rich. I was going to leave this pathetic, suffocating family and live like a queen. And you and your brat ruined it all.”

She raised the steel crowbar with both hands, stepping toward me.

“If I’m going down, Claire,” Vanessa snarled, “you’re not leaving this room.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, curling my body forward to protect my swollen belly with my arms, waiting for the impact of the steel.

*CRACK.*

The sound of shattering wood exploded through the room.

I braced for the pain, but none came.

I opened my eyes.

Arthur stood behind Vanessa in the closet doorway. His face was soaked in blood from his head wound, his eyes blazing with the ferocious, terrifying fury of a father with nothing left to lose.

In his hands, he held the heavy mahogany leg of a broken Victorian armchair he had kept in the cellar.

He had driven the splintered wood straight into the side of Vanessa’s ribs.

Vanessa screamed, the breath exploding from her lungs as she staggered sideways, dropping the crowbar onto the desk.

“Don't you touch my daughter!” Arthur roared, swinging the heavy wooden club a second time, striking Vanessa across the shoulder.

Vanessa hit the floor with a heavy thud, scrambling backward like a wounded crab, hissing and spitting blood. Arthur stood over her, his chest heaving, the club raised high above his head, ready to deliver a crushing blow.

“Dad, stop!” I cried out. “Don't kill her! Let the police take her!”

Arthur froze, the heavy piece of wood trembling in his grip inches above Vanessa’s bruised face.

Outside, tires screeched against the wet asphalt of the driveway. Doors slammed. Heavy boots pounded up the front porch steps.

“POLICE! OPEN UP! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

The front door burst open with a splintering crash. Half a dozen heavily armed officers poured into the foyer, tactical lights slicing through the dark hallway.

Arthur let out a long, shuddering breath. The heavy mahogany club slipped from his bloody hands, clattering harmlessly to the rug.

He turned toward me, sank down onto his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he whispered, his voice broken beyond repair. “I’m so sorry.”

Another massive contraction ripped through my body, dragging a raw scream from my throat. I collapsed onto my side, clutching my stomach as darkness began creeping in around the edges of my vision.

The last thing I saw before the blackness swallowed me was Rachel emerging from the cellar, bruised and coughing, pointing the police into the study, screaming: