Chapter 3

The car plunged back into the rain.

James drove fast, like he couldn't wait to get me home, or maybe he couldn't wait to get back to Emily.

"Why didn't you answer your phone last night?" I asked.

"My phone was on silent," he replied.

"I called you eight times," I said.

"I told you, my phone was on silent," he replied.

"So why did you ask me what I wanted for breakfast first thing this morning?" I pressed.

James's hands stiffened on the wheel for a moment.

Emily turned to look at me, a hint of wariness in her eyes.

"Olivia, James really does care about you," she said.

"Cares about me, but couldn't show up at the hospital?" I shot back.

"I stayed with Emily last night. She's scared of thunder," James said. "You know she's been afraid of thunder since she was a kid."

"I know." I nodded. "So you were right there with her when she made that post."

Emily's breath caught.

James glanced at the rearview mirror, a flicker of panic in his eyes before he quickly regained his composure.

"What post?" he asked.

I didn't say another word.

The only sound left in the car was the monotonous, mechanical swish of the wipers across the windshield.

I glanced down at my phone, making sure the recording was still running, then locked the screen.

When we got back to the house on Southside Lane, James got out first and held the umbrella for Emily.

Emily stood by the car door, waiting until he came around to the passenger side, opened it for her, and let her take his arm.

She looked so weak, like getting out of the car was a struggle for her.

James helped her inside, and only after she was settled on the couch did he remember that his wife, who had just gone through a miscarriage, was still left sitting in the back seat.

I leaned heavily on the car door as I got out.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, my vision went dark for a moment.

I held onto the roof, waiting until the dizziness faded, then slowly made my way inside.

The ceramic shards in the entryway had been swept away, the floor was immaculate, but there was still a faint scratch along the side of the shoe rack.

That mark was left when I hit my lower back against it last night.

James saw me staring at it and quickly looked away awkwardly.

"I had someone clean it up so you wouldn't feel uncomfortable when you got back," he said.

"Thanks," I said.

The way I stayed so calm made him uncomfortable.

He walked over, trying to help me, but I moved aside to avoid him.

"I can do it myself," I said.

James's hand froze mid-air, his expression soured for a second.

Emily sat quietly on the couch. "Olivia, don't blame James. He was really torn up last night, kept worrying about you."

I turned to look at her.

"How do you know he was worried about me?" I asked.

She blinked, caught off guard by the question.

"That's what he said to me," she replied.

"Did he really say he was worried about me?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied.

"But I spent the whole night at the hospital, waiting for his call, but it never came," I said.

Emily bit her lip, looking completely at a loss.

James cut in right away, "Didn't I already tell you? Emily was scared. I couldn't just leave her alone."

"So you decided to leave me here all by myself," I said.

"Well, you're back now, aren't you?" he snapped.

He blurted it out so fast, like he couldn't stand another second of my questioning.

I looked at him and suddenly got it. His so-called comfort was never about feeling sorry for me. He simply wanted to make sure I didn't make a scene and mess things up for him.

He hoped I'd cry like always, let him smooth things over with a few gentle words, and then go right back to keeping up appearances for him.

But not this time.

"I'm going to rest," I said.

I leaned against the wall as I made my way to the bedroom.

James called out to me from behind.

"What did the doctor say?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"What about the baby?" he asked.

I stopped in my tracks.

He said it so casually, like he was checking some lab results. There was no sadness, no urgency, like he didn't care at all.

I turned around and looked him straight in the eye.

"The baby's gone," I said.

The living room went dead silent.

Emily's face turned ghostly pale, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt.

James stood frozen, his lips moved, but no words came out.

"What did you say?" he finally managed.

"The baby's gone. I had a miscarriage," I said.

"How could this happen?" he blurted out.

He looked stunned, but it was more like he had no idea what to do.

I stared him down and said, "Because you pushed me."

James's face went pale.

"I only shoved you aside. How was I supposed to know you'd slam into the shoe rack?" he snapped.

"So you admit you shoved me," I said.

"I never said I admitted to anything," he shot back.

"You just did," I replied.

He took a step closer, his voice dropping. "Olivia, it's already happened. What's the point of bringing it up now?"

I gave a small, almost bitter laugh.

"Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but it matters to me," I said.

James stared at me, like he was seeing me for the very first time.

Emily pushed herself up from the couch, gripping the edge of the coffee table, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Olivia, James didn't do it on purpose. You can't blame him for everything that happened to the baby," she said.

I looked at her.

"So who should I blame?" I asked.

Emily's gaze wavered, but she didn't answer.

James stepped in front of her.

"That's enough. Go rest. We'll talk when you're feeling better," James cut in.

"There's nothing left to talk about," I said.

With that, I turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

Almost immediately, I could hear them talking in hushed voices outside the door.

I didn't bother to eavesdrop. I simply set my phone on the table and hit play on the recording I'd just made.

James's voice, Emily's voice, and all those moments of them acting close right in front of me, all saved, crystal clear.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my stomach throbbing with pain, but my fingers were surprisingly steady.

First, I took photos of my surgical wound and the bruises on my wrist. Then I snapped pictures of my rain-soaked clothes, the bloodstained tissues, and the hospital discharge papers.

Then I called the doctor.

After I explained what happened, the doctor didn't ask much. He simply told me I could get a copy of my medical records from the hospital, and if I wanted to press charges or do anything about it, I should save all my medical documents right away.

I thanked him, hung up, and turned on my computer.

In the bottom right corner of my desktop, the surveillance software icon was quietly lit up.

I installed this camera two months ago.

Back then, our pet was sick, and I was worried no one would be there to look after it during the day while I was at work. So I bought a tiny camera disguised as an air purifier and set it up next to the entryway cabinet.

It was connected to our home network, and I usually used it to check on the living room and the front door.

James knew I'd set up a camera, but he had no idea I'd swapped it out for a new one, or that this new model automatically saved both audio and video.

I had simply wanted to make sure our pet wasn't sneaking any snacks.

But in the end, what really got caught on camera was how my husband was the one who pushed me over the edge.

I played back last night's footage.

In the video, James was standing in the entryway. First, he slapped me hard across the face, then yanked my arm and threw me aside.

Because of the camera angle, it didn't fully capture the moment I crashed into the shoe rack, but it clearly showed his actions and me curled up, writhing in pain on the floor.

James stood there, watching me for a few seconds.

In those seconds, he didn't lift a finger to help me, didn't even reach for his phone to call for help.

He simply picked up his phone, checked the screen, and walked out without a word.

The audio was just as clear.

Before leaving, he picked up a call.

"I'm on my way, Emily. Don't be scared," he said.

I stared at the screen, my stomach churning.

After that call, he didn't look back at me.

I exported the video, copied it to two different storage devices, and uploaded it to the cloud.

Once I was sure the files were saved, I kept scrolling back through the footage.

In the footage from a few days ago, James brought Emily into the house.

That day, I was at the office dealing with an urgent contract, while James told me he had to work late.

In the video, Emily was curled up on the couch in an oversized coat, the bruises on her arm standing out even more than they did today.

She had her head down, crying, her shoulders gently shaking.

James was crouched in front of her, holding a concealer stick.

"Make it a little darker here, so it looks more convincing," he said.

Emily looked up at him.

"Isn't it too obvious?" she asked.

"No, the doctor will simply say they're old bruises," he replied.

"But I'm scared."

"Emily, have you realized? This is the only way Olivia would ever agree to let you move in."

James kept dabbing concealer on her arm.

Emily bit her lip, then reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"James, I really don't want to hurt Olivia," she whispered.

"Is it really that you don't want to hurt her, or are you afraid of losing me?" he asked.

James cupped her face, his voice so gentle it made me sick.

"Once you're in this house, leave the rest to me," he said.

Emily pressed herself closer to him and whispered, "What about the baby she's carrying?"

My fingers froze on the touchpad.

In the video, James was quiet for a moment, then gave a low, almost chilling laugh.

"She's six months pregnant now. The doctor said if her emotions get too unstable, it could affect the baby. If she loses the baby, my family will drop her," he said.

Emily looked up at him. "Are you really planning to make her miscarry?"