For six months, Emma had called me at midnight and said nothing. I would hear her breathing, then a click. For six months, bruises appeared beneath long sleeves. For six months, Evan told everyone pregnancy made her emotional, paranoid, unstable.
Then, three weeks before her death, Emma came to my kitchen barefoot in the rain.
“If something happens to me,” she whispered, “don’t cry first.”
I held her face in my hands. “Then what do I do?”
She looked at me with my own eyes.
“Fight smart.”
So I did.
While Evan gave interviews about losing the love of his life, I met Mr. Halden. While Celeste posted black-and-white photos with captions about “fragile life,” I delivered Emma’s phone to a forensic analyst. While Evan arranged a swift burial, I filed an emergency motion to delay cremation and demanded an independent medical review.
