He tied me upside down from the ceiling beam and beat my swollen belly for hours, claiming it would force a son to come out. Blood dripped from my mouth and nose onto the floor while he laughed. The pain became too much and I passed out completely. The doctor reviewed the scans with shaking hands: “The fetus is dead and badly bruised… your spine is also damaged from the suspension.”

Three days later, I was discharged. I wore a neck brace and relied on a cane, every step a brutal reminder of the utility room.

Emily drove us to her house in the suburbs, taking five different detours to ensure no one was following. Her home was a fortress—new deadbolts, a heavy security gate, and newly installed perimeter cameras.

"You're safe here," she promised, locking the heavy steel door behind us.

I settled onto her guest bed, exhausted to my bones. My phone, a new burner Emily had bought, sat silently on the nightstand. I had abandoned my old phone at the hospital.

At exactly midnight, the burner phone lit up.

An unknown number flashed on the screen. I froze. Emily was asleep in the next room. My hands shook as I reached for the device, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my bruised ribs.

I opened the text message.

The blue curtains in this room suit you, Rach. But you should ice that ankle.

A scream lodged in my throat. I stared at the message, the air turning to ice in my lungs. I looked at the window. The curtains were a deep, navy blue.

He couldn't be here. The judge had ordered an ankle monitor. He was confined to his parents' estate fifty miles away.

I dialed Detective Vance immediately.

"Vance," he answered, his voice thick with sleep.

"He knows where I am," I gasped out. "He just texted my burner phone. He knows about the blue curtains."

"Hold on," I heard a keyboard clacking on his end. "Rachel, his ankle monitor shows him securely at his parents' house. He hasn't moved."