HER MOTHER-IN-LAW'S FINAL WHISPER: The Baby Shower That Ended in Blood and Fire

At ten o’clock the following morning, Dr. Morrison arrived at the cottage.

He wasn't the warm, grandfatherly obstetrician who had managed Clara’s care in Manhattan. Dr. Morrison was Julian’s personal recommendation: a gaunt, humorless man with silver-rimmed spectacles and fingernails scrubbed so raw they looked bloody. He carried a battered leather medical bag that reeked of formaldehyde.

"Fetal heart rate is one-forty," Morrison muttered, sliding the cold ultrasound wand over Clara’s exposed stomach. The rhythmic *whoosh-whoosh* filled the small guest room, but Clara found no comfort in the sound.

Julian stood by the window, watching the monitor with an unnerving, predatory intensity.

"Cervix is still closed," Morrison continued, wiping the gel off her skin with a rough paper towel. "However, the amniotic fluid levels are concerningly high. Hydramnios. And your proteinuria indicates early-stage preeclampsia."

Clara sat up quickly, pulling her blouse down. "Preeclampsia? I feel fine. My swelling is normal for nine months, and I don't have headaches."

"Symptoms can be silent, Mrs. Vance," Morrison said coldly. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out an amber glass bottle filled with large, unmarked white capsules. "You will take two of these every six hours. It’s an experimental magnesium-based compound to stabilize your vascular pressure."

Clara stared at the bottle. There was no prescription label. No pharmacy stamp. No manufacturer name.

"What is the generic name?" Clara demanded.

Morrison paused, his hand hovering over the bottle. He exchanged a brief, imperceptible glance with Julian.

"It’s compounded specifically for your metabolic panel, Clara," Julian intervened smoothly, walking over and placing his hands firmly on her shoulders. His fingers dug into her trapezius muscles with warning pressure. "Dr. Morrison was the chief of obstetrics at Yale-New Haven. Trust him. Trust me."

"I want a second opinion," Clara said, her voice rising. "I want to go to the hospital in Hartford. Let’s do a full blood workup there."

"The drive will elevate your blood pressure to stroke levels," Morrison said, packing his stethoscope away. "Bed rest, Mrs. Vance. Total compliance. If you refuse the medication, you are putting your child’s life in immediate, lethal jeopardy."

When Morrison left, Julian poured a tall glass of tap water and brought two of the white capsules to the bedside table.

"Take them, sweetheart."

Clara looked at the pills. They were chalky, slightly uneven, hand-pressed.

"I will," she whispered. "I just need a glass of orange juice. Water makes me nauseous in the mornings."

Julian smiled, kissing her forehead. "Of course. Anything for the mother of my child."

The moment his footsteps descended the wooden stairs, Clara snatched the two capsules, wrapped them in a square of toilet paper, and shoved them into the lining of her bra. She swallowed a mouthful of water and splashed a few drops on the nightstand to make it look hurried.

When Julian returned with the juice, the nightstand was empty.

His eyes flicked to the coaster, then to her throat.