Chapter 2 - The Crack in the FoundationThe thumbnail image on my phone screen froze my blood.
I tapped it, expanding the live feed to full screen, sliding my hand beneath the table to shield the display from the executive board members seated around me. The chatter in the room faded into a dull, distant hum, replaced by the roaring sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Megan was on the floor.
She wasn't standing. She wasn't sitting. She was crawling.
Her right hand was pressed flat against the hardwood floor, knuckles white with strain, while her left hand clutched frantically at her lower abdomen. Her body trembled violently with every agonizing inch she dragged herself forward. Her face was twisted in a mask of pure, raw agony—the kind of suffering no human being should ever have to endure, let alone a mother recovering from near-fatal obstetric trauma.
She was inching toward Noah’s bassinet, fighting through blinding pain just to reach her crying child.
And standing directly over her, watching with cold, unblinking detachment, was my mother.
Linda wasn't offering a hand. She wasn't calling an ambulance. She was standing statue-still, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips moving in a harsh, demanding rhythm. Even without audio, I could read every syllable shaping behind her thin lips: "Get up. Stop acting pathetic. Do your job."
Megan shook her head weakly, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, gasping for air as she begged for her baby.
Instead of showing an ounce of human compassion, Linda stepped forward. She reached into the bassinet, scooped up newborn Noah, and physically pulled him backward, away from Megan’s desperate, outstretched fingertips.
My heart slammed against my ribs with sickening force.
Megan lunged forward, letting out a heart-wrenching sob, trying to lift her weight off the floor. Her body gave out instantly. The physical strain was too much for her fragile internal stitches.
As I watched in paralyzed horror through the high-definition lens, a dark, ominous crimson stain began spreading rapidly across Megan’s light cotton pajama pants.
Blood. Internal hemorrhaging, triggered by sheer malice.
"Oh, my God," I whispered aloud, the words tearing past my lips before I could catch them.
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A few executives turned their heads toward me, eyebrows raised in surprise at my sudden outburst.
I didn't care. The corporate boardroom, the multimillion-dollar project, the quarterly projections—they all evaporated into absolute nothingness. The only reality that mattered was happening four hundred feet below and twenty miles across Lake Washington.
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