I was still on the toilet when my husband grabbed my hair, dragged me into the hallway with my clothes half down, and slammed my shoulder into the doorframe because our newborn had kept him awake again. By the time I hit the floor, I barely looked like the woman who'd come home from the hospital three days earlier—my hair was stuck to my sweaty face, one cheek was swelling, my lip had split, and dark bruises covered my arms above the hospital wristband. His mother threw my crying baby onto a pile of blankets. I crawled to my son first, smashed the bathroom stool into my husband's shin, shoved her away, and locked us inside. Then he screamed that life had been better before I gave birth.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird as I stared at the key in my hand.

I had to figure out how to escape a secure hospital floor while handcuffed to a metal bedframe.

I suddenly remembered the small tube of lanolin ointment the nurse had left on the bedside table for my nursing pain.

I contorted my body, stretching my free hand to grab the tiny purple tube off the plastic tray.

I smeared the thick, greasy ointment all over my restrained wrist, gritting my teeth against the agonizing friction.

With one violent, desperate pull, I dislocated my own thumb and slipped my bleeding hand out of the steel cuff.

A sickening pop echoed in the quiet room, but the adrenaline masking the pain was entirely overwhelming.

I quickly popped my thumb back into its socket, suppressing a scream, and grabbed my hospital gown.

I sneaked out into the dark, quiet hallway, avoiding the brightly lit central nurses' station.

I found the heavy metal doors of the emergency stairwell and slipped inside, descending four flights of concrete stairs in complete darkness.

I pushed through the basement exit and emerged into the freezing, rain-soaked hospital parking garage.

I clicked the unlock button on the mystery key fob, and a battered blue sedan chirped from the darkest corner of the lower level.

I climbed into the driver's seat, finding a cheap burner phone and a fresh set of clothes waiting for me on the passenger seat.

I started the engine, my mind racing with a desperate plan to break into my own house and steal my baby back.

As I pulled out of the parking garage, the burner phone on the seat suddenly lit up with an incoming text message.

The message contained a live video feed of my own living room, completely completely dark and silent.

The Clumsy Maid Bathed His Dog—Then The Mafia Boss Said She Wasn’t Leavi...

She found her husband with another woman and walked away so quietly that...

The Mafia Boss Asked a Disabled Widow If She Was Okay

My blood ran cold as I watched David pacing back and forth on the screen, holding Leo in one arm.

In his other hand, he was holding a heavy, black handgun, pointing it directly at the front door.

Chapter 4 - The Midnight Escape