Tears streamed down her face. “Daddy was sneaking around at night,” she whispered. “I thought he was hiding something from you. So I took pictures with my toy iPad.”
At first, she hadn’t understood. But when she heard the recording, she realized the truth. “I was scared,” she said softly. “But I knew I had to protect Mommy.”
My five-year-old had carried this terror alone.
I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight as her small body shook. “I’m so sorry, Nira. Mommy didn’t see it. Thank you… thank you for saving me.”
“I was scared of Daddy,” she sobbed, “but I wanted to help you.”
And suddenly, everything made sense—the unexplained illness, the doctor’s confusion, the supplements Jace prepared so lovingly, the midnight calls, the weekend disappearances. Even the delay before going to the hospital. The slow drive. Every second had been calculated.
My baby hadn’t died by chance.
Jace had killed him.
Fear surged through me, sharp and urgent. What if he comes back now? What if the plan isn’t finished?
“Nira,” I said quietly, forcing calm, “press the call button.”
She did.
A nurse entered moments later. “Is something wrong?”
“Call the police,” I said. “Now.”
She hesitated. “Please calm down—”
“My husband is trying to k-ill me,” I said, my voice shaking but firm. “I have proof.”
I handed her the tablet.
As she watched, her face drained of color. Shock turned to horror. “I’ll call the police immediately,” she said, rushing out.
Nira squeezed my hand. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ll protect you.”
Her words broke me—but this time, something else rose with the tears.
Hope.
Ten minutes later, two officers entered the room. I told them everything—the drugs, the insurance, the affair, the plan to stage my death. They reviewed the evidence in silence, their expressions grim.
And for the first time since I’d lost my baby, I knew one thing for certain:
I was no longer alone.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
