Chapter 3 - The Threat
Cole let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Your father? What is Daddy going to do, write me a bad review?"
Evelyn, however, did not laugh.
She had frozen. The color was rapidly draining from her face, leaving her looking sickly and gray. She knew what Cole, in his arrogance, had ignored. She knew my father’s full name. She knew his reputation.
Before Cole could speak again, his own phone began to buzz loudly on the kitchen counter.
He glanced at the screen, a smug grin forming on his lips. "Speak of the devil. Daddy's calling."
Evelyn lunged forward, grabbing Cole’s wrist with a grip so tight her knuckles turned white. "Cole," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Do not answer that on speaker."
"Why?" Cole demanded, shaking her off. "I'm not scared of him." He tapped the screen and slid it to speakerphone. "Yeah?" he answered, his tone dripping with boredom.
"This is Grant Mercer," a voice calm, measured, and incredibly deep echoed through the kitchen. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a weight that instantly commanded the room. "Who am I speaking with?"
"Cole. Her husband. And before you start, Hannah is throwing a temper tantrum—"
"Put my daughter on the phone."
Cole laughed, leaning over my crumpled form. "Hear that, Hannah? Daddy wants to rescue you."
I reached up with a trembling hand, but my father spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. "Cole, listen to me very carefully. Give Hannah the phone, unlock your front door, and step away from her."
"You don't order me around in my own house," Cole snapped.
"Your house," my father replied, his tone chillingly precise, "is currently the scene of a recorded medical emergency."
Evelyn gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
"Recorded by who?" Cole scoffed, though his swagger was beginning to falter.
"By this phone call," my father said. "By the smart-doorbell camera your neighbor installed over his garage last month. And by the emergency dispatcher currently listening to this conversation on my second line."
"Dad?" I sobbed, my voice cracking.
"I'm here, Hannah," my father’s voice softened instantly, turning into the protector I had foolishly pushed away. "Stay awake for me, sweetheart. Are you on the kitchen floor?"
"Yes," I wept. "I'm bleeding, Dad. He threw my phone. Evelyn pushed me. I think... I think I'm losing the baby."
My father took a single, sharp breath—the sound of a man locking his grief in a drawer because he had a job to do. "Help is on the way. Do not try to stand. Keep pressure where you can."
Cole grabbed the phone off the counter, panic finally breaking through his anger. "This is crazy! You called the cops over a domestic dispute?!"
"I called an ambulance and a police escort because my pregnant daughter is hemorrhaging on a kitchen floor while her husband denies her medical care," my father said. "Those are very different things."
"Do you know who you're messing with?" Cole yelled, his face turning a dark, ugly purple.
"Cole, shut up!" Evelyn cried out, but it was too late.
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"I know exactly who I am dealing with," my father said, every word falling like a hammer on an anvil. "I am Grant Mercer. Former U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District, current managing partner of Mercer & Bell, and the man who will personally ensure that every word you speak tonight is read aloud to a jury."
In the distance, the faint, wailing scream of sirens began to echo through the rainy night.
