I forced the words out, fighting the heavy wave of unconsciousness threatening to pull me under. “442… Oakridge Lane. But you have to tell them… my husband locked the door. It’s a steel-core smart door. I can’t reach the manual override. I’m on the floor. I can’t move.”
“Stay with me, Madison. They are three minutes out. Do not close your eyes.”
But the pain was a living thing now, chewing through my nerves. The contractions were no longer waves; they were a continuous, crushing pressure. I dropped the phone. The dispatcher’s voice became a tinny, distant buzz.
I laid my cheek against the cold hardwood floor, staring blankly at the front door. The silence of the house was oppressive. Ethan was likely pulling into the valet at the country club right now, handing his keys to a teenager, smoothing his tie, preparing to smile for the cameras.
The distant, wailing shriek of sirens pierced the quiet suburban night. The sound grew louder, more frantic, until red and blue lights began flashing violently through the sheer curtains of the living room window, painting the walls in panicked colors.
I heard heavy boots pounding up the porch steps.
“Ma’am! Can you hear us? Paramedics!” A fist pounded brutally against the thick mahogany wood.
I tried to scream, I tried to tell them I was right here, just a few feet away, but only a pathetic, gurgling whimper escaped my lips. I couldn’t move my arms anymore.
“The door is locked dead! It’s an electronic deadbolt, we can’t kick it!” a deep voice shouted outside.
“Look through the sidelight! Can you see her?”
“Jesus Christ. Yeah, I see her. She’s down in the hallway. Massive hemorrhage on the floor. She’s unresponsive.”
The urgency outside escalated into a chaotic shout. “We don’t have time to wait for a locksmith or PD! Grab the Halligan bar from the truck! Take out the glass, we need to breach now!”
I closed my eyes.
A deafening CRASH exploded through the house. The heavy, decorative safety glass framing the front door shattered inward, raining jagged, heavy fragments all over the entryway rug and across my legs. Through the haze, I saw a heavy metal tool smash through the remaining glass, followed by a thick, gloved hand reaching blindly through the jagged hole, frantically feeling for the interior emergency latch.
The lock clicked. The door ripped open.
The freezing night air rushed over my sweat-soaked skin. Suddenly, my living room was flooded with blinding flashlights and men in high-visibility jackets.
“I’ve got her! Pulse is incredibly thready, she’s going into hypovolemic shock!” a paramedic yelled, dropping to his knees right in the pool of my blood. He didn’t care. He pressed a thick trauma dressing against me and barked orders. “Get the backboard! We have a suspected placental abruption. We need to move, now!”