Chapter 2 - THE HEARTBEAT
The ambulance raced through the snow while the medic pressed a monitor against my abdomen.
Static filled the small compartment.
For three unbearable seconds, there was no sound.
I gripped the edge of the stretcher.
“Where is the heartbeat?”
The medic moved the sensor.
“Stay with me, Anna.”
“Where is my baby’s heartbeat?”
My father was still connected through the phone.
He said nothing.
I knew he was listening.
I knew he was imagining the same terrible silence I was.
Then a rapid rhythm burst through the monitor.
Fast.
Faint.
Alive.
I sobbed beneath the oxygen mask.
“There we go,” the medic said.
“That’s your baby.”
“Is he all right?”
“We’re seeing signs of fetal distress, but we have a heartbeat.”
My son.
David had refused to call him our son.
During the pregnancy, he had referred to him as the baby, the pregnancy, or the responsibility.
He never touched my stomach unless other people were watching.
The ambulance swerved around a snowplow.
Another wave of pain seized my abdomen.
The medic examined the monitor.
“We’re five minutes out.”
“What’s happening?”
“You may have a placental abruption.”
The words struck harder than Sylvia’s hands.
“Am I losing him?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
She squeezed my hand.
“But the hospital is ready.”
When the ambulance arrived at Georgetown University Hospital, a medical team was waiting under the emergency entrance.
They moved me through the corridors so quickly that the ceiling lights became a white blur.
Doctors called out numbers.
A nurse cut away part of my dress.
Another inserted an IV.
Someone asked whether my husband had pushed me.
“My mother-in-law.”
“Was your abdomen struck?”
“My back hit the counter.”
“Did you fall on your stomach?”
“I don’t remember.”
The pain intensified.
A physician with silver hair leaned over me.
“Anna, I’m Dr. Elena Ramirez.”
“Please save my baby.”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to try to do.”
“Try?”
“We need an ultrasound immediately.”
They moved me into an examination room.
The door opened again before the ultrasound began.
My father stood in the doorway.
Jonathan Bennett looked older than he had the last time I saw him.
His hair had turned almost completely gray.
Deep lines cut across his forehead.
He wore a dark suit beneath a heavy wool coat, but his tie had been pulled loose, and snow had melted across his shoulders.
Two security officers remained outside.
He did not enter until I nodded.
Then he crossed the room.
For three years, I had imagined what I would say if I ever saw him again.
I had rehearsed accusations.
Apologies.
Explanations.
When he reached the bed, none of those words came.
“Dad.”
His face broke.
He bent over me and pressed his forehead against my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No.”
His voice trembled.
“Not now.”
“I should have called.”
“I should have come for you.”
“You tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
Dr. Ramirez entered with the ultrasound machine.
“We need to examine her.”
My father stepped away immediately.
“I’ll be outside.”
“Stay,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Please.”
He moved to the head of the bed and held my hand as the doctor spread cold gel across my stomach.
The monitor flickered.
A grainy image appeared.
My son’s head.
His spine.
His tiny hands.
Dr. Ramirez studied the screen.
“The placenta has partially separated from the uterine wall.”
My fingers tightened around my father’s.
“How bad is it?”
“The separation appears limited.”
“Can you stop it?”
“We can’t reattach the placenta.”
My breath caught.
“But we may be able to stabilize you and continue the pregnancy under close observation.”
“Will he survive?”
“If the bleeding stops and his heart rate remains steady, his chances are good.”
My father closed his eyes.
Dr. Ramirez continued.
“You’ll need to remain in the hospital.”
“For how long?”
“Possibly until delivery.”
I thought of David.
Of Sylvia.
Of the house where my clothes, documents, and prenatal records remained.
“I can’t go back there.”
“You won’t,” my father said.
The certainty in his voice should have comforted me.
Instead, it reminded me of his power.
I looked toward Dr. Ramirez.
“May I speak to him alone?”
She nodded.
“We’ll begin medication to help the baby’s lungs develop in case we need to deliver early.”
When the room cleared, my father remained beside the bed.
“What did you mean when you said my name was on a list?”
His expression hardened.
“The investigation began after a federal prosecutor noticed an unusual pattern in cases handled by David’s firm.”
“What kind of pattern?”
“Criminal defendants with political connections received reduced charges.”
“Civil judgments disappeared during appeal.”
“Witnesses changed testimony.”
I shook my head.
“David handled corporate litigation.”
“Officially.”
My father removed a thin envelope from inside his coat.
“We believe he served as an intermediary.”
“For whom?”
“Judges.”
“Lobbyists.”
“Business executives.”
“Possibly organized crime.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
The question was not cruel.
That made it worse.
I remembered David taking calls at midnight.
The locked office.
The weekend trips he described as emergency consultations.
The cash I once found inside a garment bag.
He had claimed it belonged to a client who distrusted banks.
I had believed him.
“What does this have to do with me?”
My father placed the envelope on the bedside table.
“Someone used your identity to create a shell consulting company.”
My mouth went dry.
“What company?”
“Bennett Strategic Solutions.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It received more than two million dollars over eighteen months.”
I stared at the envelope as though it contained something alive.
“Why use my name?”
“To create leverage against me.”
“Or to make investigators believe my family benefited from David’s operation.”
My father’s voice remained controlled, but anger burned beneath every word.
“He wasn’t only isolating you, Anna.”
“He was building a shield.”
The door opened.
The lead federal agent from Sylvia’s house stepped inside.
She introduced herself as Special Agent Rachel Monroe.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
My father straightened.
“I’ve formally recused myself from any matter involving this investigation.”
Monroe nodded.
“That’s already been documented.”
She looked at me.
“We need to ask you several questions when your doctors permit it.”
“I’ll answer.”
“There’s something else.”
She placed a clear evidence sleeve on the table.
Inside was a printed photograph.
It showed me leaving a grocery store three weeks earlier.
The image had been taken from across the parking lot.
My face had been circled in red ink.
Underneath it, someone had written two words.
FINAL LEVERAGE.
I felt the room tilt.
“Where did you find that?”
“In David’s locked office.”
My father’s face went still.
Agent Monroe turned the photograph over.
“There was a date written on the back.”
“What date?”
May you like
She looked toward the fetal monitor.
“Tomorrow.”
