Chapter 4 - The Shock of Return
It was nearly 6:00 PM when Travis’s sleek black SUV pulled into the driveway of our suburban home.
Inside the car, the atmosphere was light and cheerful. Deborah was happily clutching a brand-new, designer leather handbag, while my sister-in-law, Amanda, showed off several shopping bags from high-end boutiques. Travis sat behind the wheel, a smug, relaxed smile on his face.
"See? I told you she was overreacting," Deborah scoffed, adjusting her hair in the vanity mirror. "First-time mothers always make a scene. She probably fell asleep on the sofa after we left. The walk to the mall did us all some good."
"Exactly," Travis agreed, turning off the engine. "She just needed to calm down. I'll go inside, apologize half-heartedly, and she'll have dinner ready in no time."
"Make sure she cleans up first," Amanda chimed in from the back seat. "I want to show you the dress I bought."
They piled out of the car, carrying their colorful shopping bags, laughing and chatting as they walked up the concrete path to the porch. But as Travis reached the front door, his laughter suddenly died.
The decorative glass panel next to the lock was completely shattered, shards of sharp glass glittering on the welcome mat. The front door was slightly ajar, swaying gently in the cool evening breeze.
"What the...?" Travis muttered, his brow furrowing. "Did we get robbed?"
"Oh my goodness!" Deborah gasped, gripping her new purse tightly against her chest. "Travis, go inside! Check on the house!"
Travis pushed the door open, stepping into the foyer. The moment his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the living room, his heart dropped into his stomach, and his knees turned to water.
The living room was a chilling scene of utter devastation.
The pristine white rug was soaked in a large, dark pool of blood and dried amniotic fluid. Shattered glass was scattered everywhere. The expensive leather sofa was stained with dark red streaks, and discarded medical packaging, plastic gloves, and bloody towels lay strewn across the floor. It looked like a violent, brutal struggle had taken place.
"Chloe?" Travis yelled, his voice cracking with a sudden, rising panic. He ran into the living room, his boots crunching on the glass. "Chloe! Where are you?!"
He rushed to the kitchen, then up the stairs to our bedroom. Empty. The nursery was silent and cold. He ran back down to the living room, where Deborah and Amanda were standing, their faces completely drained of color, their shopping bags slipping from their hands and cluttering onto the floor.
"Travis... what is this?" Amanda whispered, her voice trembling as she stared at the bloody sofa. "Where is Chloe?"
Just then, the front door opened again, and my father-in-law, Richard, walked in, holding a piece of paper he had found stuck to the broken doorframe. His face was pale, his eyes wide with genuine terror.
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"Travis," Richard said, his voice shaking. "The police... they left a note. Chloe was rushed to Mercy General Hospital in critical condition. It says... it says she gave birth on the floor."
Travis dropped to his knees right in the middle of the bloody living room floor, his hands gripping his head in sheer, unadulterated panic. The heavy realization of his monstrous decision slammed into him like a physical blow. He had abandoned his pregnant wife in high-risk labor to buy a leather handbag. And now, the horror of what he had done was painted in blood all over his home.
