My husband hammered a nail into our 7-year-old daughter's foot to force her to study instead of running, ignoring her bloody screams. When my father burst in to save her, my husband brutally smashed the heavy hammer into his head, leaving him bleeding on the floor.

I backed away until my spine hit the edge of his heavy mahogany desk.

My husband locked the office door and slowly slid the key into his pants pocket.

"You are not going to get away with this," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

He chuckled softly and walked over to the large window to pull the heavy curtains shut.

"I already have," he replied with supreme, terrifying arrogance.

"The judge who signed my bail is a very good friend of mine from the country club," he boasted.

He took a step closer, his eyes dropping to the red insurance folder I was clutching in my hands.

"That money will ensure I live very comfortably after your tragic, accidental death tonight," he whispered.

He reached behind his back and pulled out a long, serrated hunting knife.

Pure survival instinct hijacked my brain as I scanned the room for a weapon.

I grabbed a heavy bronze paperweight from the desk and hurled it directly at his face.

The heavy metal struck him squarely on the cheekbone, sending him stumbling backward with a shout of pain.

I did not wait for him to recover his balance.

I grabbed the heavy desk chair and smashed it through the office window, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces.

I climbed out onto the sloping roof of the porch, slipping on the wet shingles as the freezing rain soaked my clothes.

I heard him roaring in fury from inside the room as I leaped down into the muddy bushes below.

I scrambled to my feet and ran blindly through the dark neighborhood until my lungs burned for air.

I ducked behind an abandoned storefront and collapsed onto the wet concrete to catch my breath.

I opened the red folder to make sure I still had the insurance documents safe in my possession.

Tucked between the pages of the policy was a cheap, prepaid burner phone I hadn't noticed before.

The screen suddenly illuminated, displaying an incoming text message from an unsaved number.

I hesitated for a brief second before opening the mysterious message.

"The target is secured at the warehouse, waiting for you to finish off the wife," the message read.

When my newborn 'passed away,' my mother-in-law leaned in and said

My Husband Left Me Alone in My Car While I Was in Labor

“You’re Dead When We Get Home,” He Snapped

My blood ran absolutely cold as I realized Emma had not been taken to a state foster home.

The social worker at the hospital had been a paid imposter working directly for my husband.

Chapter 3 - The Burner Phone