I was seven months pregnant when the parking guard called: “Ma’am… you need to see your car.” I ran downstairs and froze—my SUV was destroyed, and carved into the door were the words: “HOMEWRECKER” and “BABY TRAP.” Then the security video played… and I heard myself whisper, “Brittany?” My husband’s voice hit my phone: “Elena, don’t call the cops—please.” I smiled. “Too late.” But what he didn’t know? This was just the beginning.

Chapter 1: The Wreckage in Level B

I was exactly seven months pregnant, carrying the weight of my daughter and the exhausting phantom of my marriage, when my phone vibrated. I had just stepped through the sliding glass doors of the OB clinic into the thick, humid afternoon air. I assumed it was Derek—my husband. I figured he was calling to offer a rushed, hollow apology, pretending he actually cared about the ultrasound appointment he had, once again, completely ghosted.

I glanced at the screen. It was an unknown local number.

I answered, my free hand resting instinctively on the swell of my stomach.

“Hello?”

“Ma’am…” The voice on the other end was reedy and vibrating with nervous energy. “This is campus security. You… you need to come down here immediately. It’s regarding your vehicle.”