Chapter 5 — The Trap at Thornfield Court

I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant. My ankles were swollen, my back ached, and my patience was gone. Lorraine had spent three weeks campaigning to be in the delivery room, armed with printouts of dubious articles about “matriarchal support,” ignoring both my clinical experience and my repeated, explicit refusals.

She’d cornered me at Thanksgiving to announce to a cousin, “It’s just so reckless that Danielle is still working this late. Some women simply don’t have that maternal instinct.”

Two weeks before my due date, she demanded one final dinner at Thornfield Court to “clear the air” and settle the hospital plan. Against every alarm in my head, I agreed, because Corey begged me — and promised that this time he’d back me up.

The moment I stepped into that kitchen I felt it. The same fluorescent glare on the same beige linoleum. The air heavy with roasting meat and the dark gravy Lorraine was stirring on the stove in a heavy black cast-iron skillet.

Walter stood at the counter chopping vegetables, his frame a wall between me and the hallway.

Lorraine didn’t greet me. She ladled soup into bowls and set them down. “Sit.”