My son was seven days old when I found him burning with fever beside his unconscious mother. The doctor took one look at them and said, “Call the police.”

I didn’t wait for Detective Vance to issue orders.

I bolted past the security checkpoint and shoved my way into the stairwell.

My legs burned as I took the steps three at a time.

Fourth floor.

I burst through the heavy fire doors and into the pediatric intensive care unit.

The alarms were blaring, and the emergency sprinkler system had engaged.

Water rained down from the ceiling, soaking everything.

I ran to Noah’s incubator.

The glass was shattered, and the monitors were flatlining.

The tiny blankets were empty.

“Noah!” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat apart.

Vance caught up to me, his gun drawn.

“He couldn’t have made it far with a baby,” Vance said, scanning the flooded hallway.

“Check the service elevators!”

We ran down the corridor, water splashing around our ankles.

At the end of the hall, the heavy metal doors of the service elevator were just closing.

I caught a glimpse of the man with the scar.

He was holding a bundle of blue blankets tight against his chest.

“Stop!” I roared, throwing myself at the doors.

My fingers caught the rubber edge, but the doors slid shut with a mechanical click.

The digital display above the elevator showed it descending to the basement garage.

“The garage!” Vance yelled into his radio.

“Suspect is heading to the basement level!”

We turned and sprinted back to the stairwell, flying down the concrete steps.

I was running purely on adrenaline and the primal instinct of a father.

We burst into the dimly lit underground parking garage.

The air smelled of exhaust fumes and damp concrete.

Tires screeched as a black SUV suddenly reversed out of a parking spot.

Vance raised his weapon, aiming at the tires.

“Police! Stop the vehicle!” he ordered.

The SUV didn’t slow down; it accelerated straight toward us.

Vance fired two shots, shattering the windshield.

The driver swerved violently, crashing into a concrete pillar with a deafening crunch.

I ran toward the wrecked vehicle, my heart in my throat.

I yanked the passenger door open, ready to tear the man apart.

But the man with the scar wasn't in the car.

Sitting in the driver's seat, bleeding from a cut on her forehead, was my sister, Ashley.

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

She looked up at me and smiled a wicked, bloody smile.

“You’re too late, Ethan,” she whispered.

Chapter 6 - The Chase