Chapter 1 - “KEEP HIM TALKING”
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Not my husband.
Not his mother.
Not Mara.
Even the wind seemed to disappear.
My husband's fingers were still buried in the wet soil beside my right shoulder.
Then the voice came again from beneath the dirt.
“Sheriff’s dispatch. We have your location. Keep him talking.”
His face changed.
The smugness vanished first.
Then the color drained from his cheeks.
He jerked his hand away from the freezer bag as if the phone had burned him.
“What the hell is that?”
His mother rushed down the porch steps.
“What happened?”
He didn't answer.
He stared at the patch of soil covering my shoulder.
I could barely breathe.
The straw was still between my lips, but my throat had become so dry that every breath felt like dragging air through paper.
The dispatcher spoke again.
“Ma'am, if you can hear me, don't speak unless you have to. Help is on the way.”
My husband's mother looked at him.
Then at me.
Then back at him.
“You said she didn't have a phone.”
“I thought she didn't.”
“You thought?”
Mara stepped backward.
Her lawn chair scraped against the porch.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
My husband suddenly grabbed the phone through the plastic.
The dispatcher immediately responded.
“Sir, step away from the device.”
He froze.
“You're trespassing,” he said.
The voice on the phone remained calm.
“Sir, we have your address.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't understand what's happening here.”
“Oh, I understand enough.”
Something in that sentence broke whatever confidence he had left.
He looked toward the road.
That was when I heard it.
A siren.
Far away.
Then another.
My husband turned toward the house.
“Mom, get inside.”
His mother didn't move.
“Mara, go.”
Mara stared at me.
For the first time since they buried me, she looked directly into my eyes.
There was fear in hers.
Not guilt.
Fear.
“You recorded us,” she whispered.
I blinked slowly.
My husband snapped his head toward her.
“Shut up.”
“You recorded everything.”
“Mara!”
“You told her nobody would believe her.”
His expression hardened.
“You need to shut your mouth.”
The sirens grew louder.
My husband suddenly crouched beside me.
His voice changed.
The cruel tone disappeared.
He became the gentle husband again.
The man neighbors knew.
The man who held doors open for elderly women.
The man who brought casseroles to funerals.
The man who smiled at church.
“Baby,” he whispered, “listen to me.”
I stared at him.
“We made a mistake.”
My heart pounded.
“We?”
He swallowed.
“You're upset. You're pregnant. You haven't eaten. You're confused.”
The old story.
The one he'd been building for months.
“She doesn't know what she's saying,” his mother called from behind him.
My husband nodded.
“Exactly.”
He leaned closer.
“We can fix this.”
I tightened my lips around the straw.
“You don't have to say anything.”
He smiled.
Just like before.
“If the police ask questions, you tell them you fell.”
My eyes stayed on his.
“You understand?”
The first patrol car turned into the driveway.
His smile disappeared.
Two deputies stepped out.
One of them shouted.
“Hands where we can see them!”
My husband slowly stood.
“I can explain.”
“Step away from her.”
“Officer, this is a family matter.”
The deputy looked at the ground.
Then at me.
His expression changed.
“Jesus Christ.”
He immediately called for medical assistance.
The second deputy approached my husband.
“Turn around.”
“This is a misunderstanding.”
“Turn around.”
“She is my wife.”
“I don't care who she is.”
The deputy pulled his wrists behind his back.
My husband's mother started screaming.
“You can't arrest him!”
The deputy didn't even look at her.
“Ma'am, step away.”
Mara stood frozen.
Then she began crying.
“I didn't know.”
I heard her say it.
Again.
“I didn't know it would go this far.”
I wanted to laugh.
Instead, I closed my eyes.
Because suddenly I was too tired to hate her.
The paramedics arrived minutes later.
They cut away the dirt around my neck carefully.
Every movement hurt.
When they finally lifted me free, I felt as if my entire body had forgotten how to exist outside the ground.
My knees buckled.
A paramedic caught me.
“Easy.”
Another placed oxygen over my face.
“Can you tell me your name?”
I tried.
Nothing came out.
“That's okay.”
He checked my pulse.
“She's severely dehydrated.”
Another paramedic pressed a hand gently against my abdomen.
“Pregnant?”
I nodded.
“How far?”
I held up four fingers.
“Four months?”
I nodded again.
My husband's voice came from behind the police line.
“She's unstable!”
One deputy turned.
“Sir, stop talking.”
“She gets confused under stress.”
I opened my eyes.
The paramedic noticed.
“Don't listen to him.”
I looked toward my husband.
For the first time, he looked small.
Not powerful.
Not frightening.
Just small.
And terrified.
The ambulance doors closed.
As they pulled away, I heard a deputy say something into his radio.
“Possible prolonged unlawful confinement. Pregnant victim. Multiple recordings.”
I closed my eyes.
The baby moved.
Once.
Then again.
I placed one trembling hand over my stomach.
And for the first time in days, I allowed myself to believe something.
May you like
We were getting out.
Both of us.
