Chapter 2 - THE SECOND PHONE
I stared at the evidence bag for nearly a minute.
The phone inside was newer than mine.
Black.
Expensive.
The screen was intact.
My husband had hidden it behind a stack of old receipts in the kitchen drawer.
Detective Harris pulled a chair closer to my bed.
“We're processing it as evidence.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can't let you use it.”
“I don't want to use it.”
I looked at the phone.
“I want to know why they were hiding it.”
Harris nodded.
“We'll find out.”
My hands tightened around the blanket.
“Detective?”
“Yes?”
“If there's something on that phone…”
I struggled to speak.
“Will you tell me?”
“If it's relevant to the investigation.”
I nodded.
He stood.
Before he left, I asked:
“Am I going to be charged with anything?”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“No.”
“But my husband said—”
“Your husband says a lot of things.”
He paused.
“Mrs. Walker, you survived something serious.”
That word stayed with me.
Survived.
I wasn't used to hearing it.
I'd spent months thinking of myself as weak.
Broken.
Worthless.
A bad wife.
A woman who couldn't give her husband what he wanted.
But Detective Harris hadn't called me any of those things.
He called me a survivor.
The door closed behind him.
I was alone.
For the first time, truly alone.
I looked down at my stomach.
It was empty.
The realization hit me again.
My son was gone.
I whispered his name.
I hadn't even told anyone the name I'd chosen.
Eli.
I had planned to tell my husband after the ultrasound.
Instead, I had carried the secret in my heart.
Now there would never be an ultrasound.
Never a tiny hand.
Never a first cry.
I pressed my palm against my stomach and cried.
Hours later, Detective Harris returned.
He didn't sit down.
That frightened me.
“What happened?”
“We've accessed the phone.”
My heart began pounding.
“What was on it?”
“Messages.”
“Between who?”
“Your husband and another person.”
“Who?”
Harris hesitated.
“A doctor.”
My blood went cold.
“A doctor?”
“Yes.”
“What doctor?”
He looked at his notes.
“Dr. Richard Bell.”
I knew the name.
He was the physician my mother-in-law had insisted I see months earlier.
The one who had told me my pregnancy was “high risk because of emotional instability.”
The one who had never asked how I was being treated at home.
The one who had repeatedly told me to “avoid unnecessary stress.”
I stared at Harris.
“What did he say?”
“We're still examining the messages.”
“Did he know?”
“Know what?”
“That they were hurting me.”
Harris didn't answer immediately.
Then he said:
“There are messages indicating he knew you were being physically harmed.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why didn't he say anything?”
“We don't know yet.”
Harris sat down.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“There are financial transfers.”
My eyebrows pulled together.
“What kind?”
“Payments.”
“To Dr. Bell.”
“How much?”
“Thousands of dollars.”
I stared at him.
My husband had always complained about money.
He told me we couldn't afford better food.
He complained whenever I needed medicine.
He once told me I was too expensive to keep.
But he had been paying a doctor thousands of dollars.
“For what?”
“We don't know.”
Harris opened his notebook.
“There's also something involving your mother-in-law.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“She made several calls to an attorney.”
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
I shook my head.
“What kind of attorney?”
“Estate planning.”
I didn't understand.
“My husband doesn't have an estate.”
Harris looked at me.
“That may not be true.”
He handed me a printed document.
At the top was the name of a company I recognized.
Walker Agricultural Holdings.
My father's old company.
I stared at the page.
“That can't be…”
Harris watched me carefully.
“Do you know what that is?”
“My father owned land.”
“How much?”
“About four hundred acres.”
“Who inherited it?”
“I did.”
My voice became barely audible.
“When my father died, my mother left everything to me.”
Harris nodded.
“According to the documents on this phone, that land may be worth several million dollars.”
I looked up.
My husband had always told me the land was worthless.
He said my father had left me nothing but debt.
He told me to sign papers transferring everything to him because he was “protecting me.”
I remembered the papers.
I remembered my mother-in-law standing behind me.
I remembered my husband's hand resting on my shoulder.
And I remembered him saying:
“Trust me.”
I had.
Detective Harris placed another document on the table.
“This was sent from your husband's phone to the attorney.”
I read the message.
My hands began shaking.
Once the baby is born, she'll sign everything.
I looked at Harris.
“Why the baby?”
He didn't answer.
I read the next line.
If it's a boy, she'll never suspect what we're planning.
My breathing stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Harris looked at me.
“We're trying to determine that.”
Then he turned the page.
The final message was only six words.
She can't inherit if she dies.
The room went silent.
I looked at Detective Harris.
He looked back.
May you like
And suddenly the question wasn't whether my husband had abused me.
It was whether he had planned to kill me.
