Chapter 3 - Trauma Unit
The stretcher ride to Mercy General Hospital was a blur of flashing lights, oxygen masks, and the steady, urgent voice of the paramedic monitoring my baby's heartbeat.
"Fetal heart rate is elevated at 175, but stable," the paramedic called out. "Second-degree burns across ten percent of the left upper extremity and lateral hip. Prepare trauma bay two!"
Dr. Evelyn Reed, a leading obstetrician and trauma specialist, met us at the doors. Within seconds, I was shifted to a hospital bed, sterile cooling dressings applied to my burns while an ultrasound probe slid over my lower abdomen.
I squeezed Chief Miller's hand tightly. "Is the baby okay? Please tell me my baby is okay."
Dr. Reed focused intently on the monitor screen. After five excruciating seconds, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of my unborn daughter's heartbeat filled the room.
"She's resilient, Claire," Dr. Reed said with a warm, reassuring smile. "The amniotic fluid protected her from the thermal heat. But we have early signs of stress-induced contractions. We need to stabilize you immediately and keep you under 48-hour observation."
Chief Miller stepped aside to answer a call on his secure radio. He walked back to my bedside, his expression dark.
"What is it, Arthur?" I asked.
"Ryan's lawyer, Richard Sterling, just posted bail for both Ryan and Patricia," Arthur revealed, anger tight in his jaw. "They were in and out of the precinct in under an hour. Sterling is already trying to claim the incident was a domestic mishap caused by pregnancy clumsiness."
"They're going to try to wipe the server," I said, panic rising in my chest. "The clock feeds to an off-site drive Dad set up!"
"They can't," Arthur assured me, patting my hand gently. "I had my cyber unit lock down the physical property as a crime scene twenty minutes ago. The house is under police guard. But Claire... you need a top-tier family and criminal attorney before they file for emergency custody or property injunctions."
May you like
The door to the trauma bay opened, and a sharp, impeccably dressed woman in a dark charcoal suit walked in. She carried a leather briefcase and carried an air of absolute control.
"I believe that's my cue," the woman said, extending a hand to me. "I'm Samantha Cross. Your father hired my firm three years ago with explicit instructions to represent you if anyone ever tried to take your home."
