The Secret Genius Ex-Wife's Cold Revenge

The room was empty.

A nurse was in the process of stripping the bed. She was shoving heavy, crimson-soaked sheets into a yellow biohazard bag. The mattress protector underneath was still visible, bearing a dark, jagged map of violence that hadn't yet been scrubbed away.

Dillard stopped. His breath caught in his throat. The sheer volume of blood was undeniable. It wasn't a prop. It wasn't a trick.

"Where is she?" he demanded. His voice was too loud in the quiet room.

Brisa peeked around him. "See? She's gone. Probably went shopping."

The nurse looked up, startled. She dropped the biohazard bag, sealing the evidence of Erica's pain. "Mr. Bentley? We didn't expect you."

"Where is my wife?" Dillard pointed at the bed.

"Mrs. Bentley discharged herself against medical advice," the nurse said, clutching a clipboard. "About forty minutes ago."

"Discharged? So she's fine?" Brisa said triumphantly.

The nurse looked at Brisa with open hostility. "Fine? She just underwent a D&C for an incomplete miscarriage. Without anesthesia. She lost a significant amount of blood. She is not 'fine'."

The world tilted on its axis.

Dillard grabbed the doorframe. "Miscarriage? Without... without anesthesia?"

"Yes," the nurse said softly. "Her drug interactions made sedation impossible. She was... very brave. She didn't make a sound."

Dillard felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at the yellow bag on the floor. That was Erica's blood. While he was drinking scotch. While he was laughing at Gisselle on the phone.

He walked to the bedside table. A plastic patient wristband lay there, cut off.

Erica Bentley. Fall Risk.

He picked it up. It felt light, flimsy.

Brisa touched his arm. "Dillard, maybe the nurse is mistaken..."

"Get out," Dillard whispered.

"What?"

"Get out!" he roared, spinning on her. His eyes were wild. "Leave!"

Brisa recoiled, terrified. She turned and ran, her heels clattering away.

Dillard looked at the nurse. "Who took her?"

"A friend. Miss Dixon."

Dillard fumbled for his phone. He dialed Erica. Straight to voicemail.

He dialed Gisselle.

The call failed immediately. Blocked.

Panic, cold and suffocating, wrapped around his throat. She was gone. She was hurt, bleeding, and she was gone.