Chapter 8 - THE TRUTH ABOUT MY HUSBAND
My husband requested another hearing.
He claimed he wanted reconciliation.
I almost laughed.
His attorney said he wanted “to repair the family.”
I refused to meet him alone.
The judge allowed a supervised conversation.
We sat across from each other.
He looked tired.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
I stared at him.
“You buried me alive.”
“I panicked.”
“You brought a weapon.”
“I didn't mean to hurt you.”
“You hit my stomach.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I lost control.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You followed a plan.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“You knew about my documents.”
His face changed.
“You knew about my sister.”
Silence.
“You knew when I was leaving.”
His jaw tightened.
“You knew about the recording.”
He said nothing.
I leaned forward.
“And you knew exactly where the trench was.”
He finally looked at me.
“You were going to take my child.”
“No.”
I whispered:
“I was trying to save my child.”
Something in his face broke.
For a second, I saw the man I had married.
Then he disappeared again.
“Your child isn't safe.”
“From you?”
He looked toward the door.
“From them.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
“Your mother?”
Nothing.
“Robert?”
Nothing.
“Natalie?”
His eyes flickered.
I saw it.
Fear.
Not anger.
Fear.
“What are you afraid of?”
He whispered:
“You don't know what my family is capable of.”
I leaned back.
“Then tell me.”
He shook his head.
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because if I talk, they'll kill you.”
I stared at him.
“You already tried.”
He looked at my stomach.
“I know.”
That night, my husband sent me a message.
I am sorry.
Then another.
I was trying to buy time.
Another.
Check the floor beneath the old nursery.
I stared at the screen.
Claire read over my shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
We went to the house with police protection.
The nursery had been locked.
Detective Brooks forced the door.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Crib.
Changing table.
Boxes.
Then one officer noticed the floorboard.
It had been recently disturbed.
They lifted it.
Beneath it was a metal case.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
My pregnancy.
My medical appointments.
My sister.
Natalie.
My husband.
And one photograph that made me freeze.
My mother.
She had died when I was twelve.
The photograph had been taken three years ago.
She was alive.
I dropped the photograph.
“No.”
Detective Brooks picked it up.
“Emily?”
I couldn't speak.
My mother had been declared dead.
I had attended her funeral.
I had spent fifteen years believing she was gone.
But there she was.
Standing outside a restaurant.
Older.
May you like
Alive.
And beside her was Robert Carter.
