Chapter 2 - The Crimson Threshold
"...Adam," Lily gasped, her voice barely a thread of sound in the heavy, suffocating silence of the bedroom. She reached a trembling hand toward me, her fingers stained with the same dark crimson that ruined our wedding photo on the floor. "The baby... something is wrong. Help us."
The poison of my mother’s whispered doubts instantly evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp dread that paralyzed my lungs. I didn’t think. I didn’t analyze the backward nightgown or the shattered glass anymore. I lunged across the debris, heedless of the sharp shards slicing through the soles of my socks.
"Lily! I'm here. I've got you," I cried, pulling her sweat-slicked, shivering frame into my arms.
She was burning hot, yet shaking as if trapped in an arctic blizzard. As I lifted her, my hand brushed her lower back and came away slick and wet. Dark blood. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. She wasn’t betraying me; she was hemorrhaging.
"I tried... to reach the phone," she whispered, her eyes fluttering, threatening to roll back into her head. "I tripped... the frame fell. I couldn't get back up. I'm sorry, Adam. I'm so sorry."
"Don't talk. Save your strength," I pleaded, my voice cracking. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dialing 911 with thumb-strikes so frantic I nearly dropped the device twice.
"911, what is your emergency?" a calm, detached voice asked in my ear.
"My wife. She’s pregnant—twenty-eight weeks. She’s bleeding heavily, she’s in extreme pain, and she's drifting in and out of consciousness. Please, we need an ambulance immediately!" I yelled, lifting Lily fully into my arms.
The weight of her, usually so solid and warm, felt terrifyingly light and fragile. As I carried her out of the bedroom, away from the glittering minefield of glass, I noticed the front door. The deadbolt was thrown, but the chain was unlatched. Had someone been here? Or had she simply unlocked it in a desperate, failed attempt to seek help before collapsing back onto the bed?
"An ambulance is en route to your location, sir. Keep her warm and elevate her legs if possible," the dispatcher instructed.
I laid Lily gently on our living room sofa, grabbing a heavy wool throw blanket to wrap around her shivering shoulders. Her face was the color of chalk, her lips tinged with a faint, terrifying blue.
"Adam," she muttered, her fingers tightening on my shirt with surprising, desperate strength. "Don't let them take her. Don't let her go."
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"I won't. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you," I vowed, kissing her damp forehead, tasting the salt of her sweat and tears.
In the distance, the first low wail of sirens began to cut through the quiet Chicago night. I knelt beside her, holding her hand, staring at the dark red smudges on her fingers. The questions still lingered in the dark corners of my mind, but they were no longer accusatory. They were terrifying. What had happened in this apartment during the three days I was gone?
