Chapter 2 - The Siren In The Night
Paramedics arrived within three minutes, their heavy boots thumping across the polished porch.
Two emergency medical technicians entered with a portable monitor, immediately wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my trembling arm.
"Ma'am, we need to get you onto the stretcher right away," the female medic said gently, noticing the rhythmic tightening across my thirty-three-week belly.
"We need to monitor fetal heart tones and check for uterine contractions."
I refused to let go of Oliver until Michael stepped forward, holding out his arms with an encouraging smile.
"Oliver will ride in the front of the ambulance with me, Claire," Michael promised quietly.
"I give you my personal word that he will not leave my sight, and no one from the Whitmore family will touch him."
Oliver hesitated, looking between me and the kind man in the gray suit, before reaching out his little hands toward Michael's neck.
As they loaded me onto the stretcher, Derek stepped forward, raising his voice in a desperate attempt to regain control.
"You cannot take my son! I am his father! Officers, tell them they cannot take my child without my consent!"
"You're under arrest for reckless endangerment, Mr. Whitmore," Officer Harris barked, twisting Derek's arms behind his back with practiced force.
The sharp metallic click of handcuffs echoed off the vaulted ceiling, cutting Derek off mid-sentence.
Beside him, her hands already cuffed behind her back, Vanessa was sobbing hysterically as the younger officer read her rights.
"Derek, do something!" Vanessa cried, struggling against the officer's grip.
"You promised me this house! You promised me she would be locked up in a clinic by Friday!"
Every police officer and paramedic in the room paused, looking at Derek with profound disgust.
Derek squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw trembling, unable to utter a single word to save himself.
As the stretcher rolled past the console table, I noticed the diamond anniversary bracelet still sparkling on Vanessa’s cuffed wrist.
"Officer," Michael said, pointing directly at the jewelry.
"Please catalog that platinum diamond bracelet as stolen property. We have the certified appraisal and insurance theft report filed six months ago."
Vanessa looked down at her wrist as if the diamonds had suddenly turned to burning acid, letting out a wail of pure humiliation.
The front doors swung open into the warm Charleston night, the flashing blue and red emergency lights painting the live oaks in dramatic crimson hues.
Neighbors lined the manicured sidewalks of our historic South of Broad neighborhood, whispering behind their hands as Derek Whitmore, golden boy of Charleston banking, was shoved into the back of a police cruiser.
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I leaned my head back against the stretcher pillow, closing my eyes as the ambulance doors slammed shut.
A sharp cramp shot through my lower abdomen, and I placed both hands over my unborn daughter, praying with every fiber of my being that she would survive the storm her father had unleashed.
