Chapter 2 - The Red and Blue Lights
The flashing red and blue lights painted the yellow walls of our living room in grotesque, rhythmic pulses. Outside, gravel crunched under heavy tires as two patrol cruisers and an ambulance pulled into our driveway, their engines humming over the dead silence that had fallen upon the house.
Nobody moved. Nobody knew how to breathe.
On the floor, nestled between a gift box wrapped in silver ribbon and an overturned plate of lemon cake, lay the prosthetic belly. It looked obscenely pale under the recessed lighting. Where David’s knuckles had struck it, the thick core of medical-grade memory foam was still dented inward, like bread dough that refused to rise.
Mark, Sarah’s boyfriend, remained on his knees. His hands hung limply in the air, trembling, his fingers curled into empty hooks. For eight months, he had rubbed stretch-mark cream onto a woman’s waistline through thick silk nightgowns. He had talked to that foam through Sarah’s clothes. He had pressed his ear against layers of silicone and polyfill, whispering nursery rhymes in the dark, wondering aloud why the flutter kicks were so faint. Sarah had always laughed and pulled the duvet up, telling him the placenta was anterior, that the doctor said boys were sleepier in the womb.
"Mark," Dad said, his voice cracking like dry wood. "Son, stand up."
Mark didn’t move. A single drop of sweat fell from the tip of his nose onto the floor. "Where is the baby?" he whispered. He turned his head toward Sarah, his eyes wide and glassy, completely detached from reality. "Sarah. Where is our boy?"
Sarah didn’t look at him. She was backing toward the hallway, her floral maternity sundress hanging loose and wrinkled around her thin frame. Without the padded harness, the fabric draped over her sharp hip bones like laundry tossed over a chair. Her face was flushed bright crimson, but her eyes were cold, sharp, and darting toward the back patio door.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she hissed, glaring directly at David. "You had no right to touch me! You're a violent psycho! Officer!" she screamed as the front door swung open. "Officer, arrest him! He assaulted me!"
Two uniformed officers pushed into the room, their hands instinctively hovering near their duty belts. Behind them came two paramedics carrying a stretcher and a jump kit.
"Dispatch reported an assault on a heavily pregnant female," the older officer announced, his sharp eyes taking in the room. He locked onto David, whose knuckles were red, still standing against the wall with my brothers flanking him. "Nobody move. Who placed the 911 call?"
"I did," Mom sobbed. She was clutching her phone so tightly her knuckles were translucent. "I did, but... oh God, officer, look at the floor."
The paramedic knelt beside the dented silicone torso, his brow furrowing as he picked it up by one of its beige nylon shoulder straps. He turned it over, revealing the heavy-duty Velcro clasps and the manufacturer tag: *CinemaFlex Special Effects — Stage 3 Bump (7-8 Months).*
The young paramedic looked up at Sarah, then down at the prop, completely bewildered. "Is anyone actually injured here?"
"My sister," I managed to say, my throat feeling as though it were lined with broken glass. I pointed at the floor, then at Sarah. "She was never pregnant. But that isn't the worst of it. David... tell them what you found."
David stepped forward. My brothers let their arms drop from his shoulders; they were staring at him now not with rage, but with a horrifying, gut-wrenching realization. David reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, holding it out to the lead officer.
"Her name is Sarah Miller," David said, his voice level despite the tremor in his hands. "For the past six months, she has taken over thirty thousand dollars from this family for private obstetric care, nursery renovations, and non-existent medical emergencies. But three days ago, I found her hidden browser history and followed her to St. Jude’s County Hospital. She has been stalking a seventeen-year-old girl named Becca Torres."
The room went colder than ice.
"She has nurse scrubs in the trunk of her car," David continued, looking directly into the officer's eyes. "She bought an industrial infant car seat and forged identity documents. Becca Torres is an orphan living in a transitional youth shelter. She is being induced tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Sarah wasn't just faking a pregnancy. She was planning to steal a newborn baby to bring home to that crib."
"That's a lie!" Sarah shrieked. The pitch of her voice shattered the air. She lunged forward, clawing at David, but the second officer intercepted her, catching her by the wrists. "He's making it up! He hacked my things! He wants to destroy me because he's always hated me! Mom, tell them! Tell them how David hates me!"
Mom didn’t speak. She slowly sank into Grandma’s armchair, her face as gray as ash, her eyes fixed on the empty floral dress hanging loose over Sarah's flat stomach.
"Ma'am, calm down," the officer ordered, snapping handcuffs around Sarah’s wrists with a clean, metallic click.
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"Officer," Mark whispered from the floor. He slowly stood up, looking like a dead man walking. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and threw them toward the police. "Her car is parked right in front of the garage. The white Honda. Go look in the trunk. Please. Just go look."
***
