Chapter 1 - The Handprint
"No."
That was all I said.
One word.
Fifty-two years of living, thirty years in uniform, two deployments to war zones, and thousands of hours learning how to control my temper had prepared me for almost anything.
Nothing had prepared me for the sight of my pregnant daughter's body.
Abby stared at the ceiling.
She wouldn't look at Travis.
She wouldn't look at his mother.
And the hand I was holding had begun to shake so badly that I could feel the mattress trembling beneath us.
"Mom," she whispered.
"I'm here, sweetheart."
"Please don't get angry."
Something broke inside my chest.
Not because she was injured.
Not even because I knew, with terrible certainty, that those injuries had not come from an accidental fall.
It was because my daughter was lying in front of me, covered in bruises, apologizing for what might happen when I found out.
I reached into my jacket and took out my phone.
Travis stepped forward.
"Colonel, whatever you think you're seeing—"
"Stay where you are."
He stopped.
Glenda folded her arms.
"This is a family matter."
I looked at her.
"So was my husband's funeral."
Her expression shifted.
"You were there, Glenda."
"I don't see what that has to do with—"
"Abby was seventeen when we buried him."
I held my daughter's trembling hand a little tighter.
"She cried so hard that night she couldn't breathe."
I looked back at Travis.
"That was the last time I heard her call me Mommy."
Nobody spoke.
"Until today."
I dialed 911.
Travis lunged toward me.
Not far.
Just one sudden step.
Enough to make Abby recoil so violently that she cried out.
That reaction told me more than the bruises.
I moved between him and the bed.
"Take another step and you'll have a second problem."
He raised both hands.
"You're misunderstanding everything."
I gave the dispatcher the address.
I explained that a pregnant woman was injured, possibly being held against her will, and needed emergency medical assistance.
When the dispatcher asked whether she was conscious, Abby squeezed my fingers.
"Yes."
"Is she safe?"
I looked at Travis.
"Not yet."
Glenda approached the bedroom doorway.
"She's been under a doctor's care."
"Then give me the doctor's name."
"That's confidential."
"From her own mother?"
"She's an adult."
I turned toward Abby.
"Sweetheart, do you want me to stay?"
She nodded.
"Do you want an ambulance?"
Her eyes moved toward Travis.
He gave the smallest shake of his head.
Almost invisible.
Abby immediately looked down.
I had spent years teaching young officers to notice the difference between what people said and what they were afraid to say.
My daughter had just answered my question without speaking.
"Abby."
I waited until she looked at me.
"He doesn't get to answer for you anymore."
Her lower lip trembled.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes, what?"
"I want to go."
Travis's face hardened.
"Abigail."
She flinched.
I turned around.
"Her name is Abby."
He laughed once.
A strange, desperate sound.
"She can't just leave."
"Watch her."
"She's my wife."
"That doesn't make her your property."
Glenda suddenly stepped into the room.
"Do you have any idea how unstable she has been?"
Abby closed her eyes.
Glenda pointed toward the bed.
"She cries constantly."
"Stop talking."
"She refuses food."
"Glenda."
"She has been making things up for weeks."
I stood.
"Get out."
Glenda's mouth opened.
I took one step toward her.
"Now."
She retreated into the hall.
Travis remained near the dresser.
His eyes kept moving toward the closet.
That detail registered in my mind.
I didn't know why it mattered.
Not yet.
Then Abby gripped my sleeve.
"Mom."
I leaned down.
"What is it?"
"Don't let them take my baby."
Every sound in the room seemed to disappear.
I felt my heartbeat in my throat.
"Nobody is taking your baby."
She began crying.
"They already picked a name."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Glenda."
Abby's breath came in short, painful bursts.
"She said I wouldn't be allowed to choose."
The bedroom door slammed against the wall.
Earl Dobbs stood in the doorway.
Behind him were two Indianapolis police officers.
The first officer took one look at Abby and immediately called for medical assistance to hurry.
The second asked Travis to move into the living room.
Travis tried to protest.
Earl didn't touch him.
He didn't need to.
My sergeant major stood six feet four inches tall, his expression carved from stone.
"Sir," Earl said quietly, "the officer asked you to move."
Travis moved.
An ambulance arrived minutes later.
While the paramedics examined Abby, I stood beside the window and tried to think like an officer.
Not a mother.
An officer.
I needed facts.
A timeline.
Evidence.
A safe extraction.
And I needed to control myself.
Because every instinct in my body wanted to drag Travis back into that bedroom and make him look at what he'd done.
Instead, I listened.
The paramedic asked Abby how far along she was.
"Twenty-six weeks," she whispered.
"Have you had any bleeding?"
She hesitated.
"Some."
"How long ago?"
"Last night."
My knees nearly gave way.
The paramedic looked up sharply.
"Did you call your doctor?"
Abby shook her head.
"Why not?"
Her eyes filled.
"Travis said it wasn't necessary."
The paramedic began preparing to move her.
Glenda appeared in the hallway carrying a pink folder.
"Her medical information is right here."
She held it out.
The paramedic reached for it.
I noticed something written on the tab.
Not Abby's name.
A different name.
I moved closer.
Glenda immediately turned the folder around.
Too late.
I had already seen it.
BABY KEENE — CUSTODY PREPARATION.
I looked directly at her.
"What is that?"
She pressed the folder against her chest.
"Nothing that concerns you."
Behind me, Abby made a small, terrified sound.
"Mom."
I turned.
Her face had gone white.
"Don't let her bring that folder."
"Why?"
Abby swallowed.
"Because that's where they keep the papers."
"What papers?"
Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
"The ones they made me sign."
The paramedics lifted her onto the stretcher.
As they moved toward the hallway, Glenda stepped aside.
But she was smiling.
A small smile.
Almost satisfied.
I had seen that expression before.
It belonged to people who believed the outcome had already been decided.
I followed the stretcher downstairs.
Earl walked beside me.
"Ma'am, what do you need?"
"Stay here with the officers."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Find out what happens to anything they remove from that apartment."
He glanced toward the building.
"You think there's more?"
I looked at the ambulance.
At my daughter's pale face behind the glass.
At the blanket that had concealed her injuries.
"Yes."
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman spoke before I could say anything.
"Colonel Braddock?"
"Speaking."
"My name is Dr. Helen Marsh."
"Who are you?"
"I'm an obstetrician."
My heart began pounding.
"Is this about Abby?"
There was a pause.
"Colonel, your daughter missed her emergency appointment yesterday."
I stopped walking.
"What emergency appointment?"
"She was supposed to come in after reporting abdominal trauma."
The parking lot tilted beneath my feet.
Dr. Marsh continued.
"And there's something else you need to know."
I closed my eyes.
"What?"
"Your son-in-law called this morning."
I looked toward the apartment windows.
"He told my office that Abby had moved out of state."
Another pause.
"And that you were no longer to be contacted in any medical emergency."
I gripped the phone.
"Doctor, my daughter is in an ambulance."
"I know."
"How?"
"Because I called the hospital when her appointment was missed."
Her next words turned my blood cold.
"Colonel, we've been trying to reach her for three weeks."
I stared at the building where my daughter had been living.
Three weeks.
Forty-four lies.
And somehow, even that wasn't the whole story.
Then Dr. Marsh said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"There's a reason I scheduled that emergency appointment."
I couldn't breathe.
May you like
"Tell me."
"Someone had been asking whether Abby could be declared incapable of making medical decisions before her baby was born."
