He had always said paperwork was too complicated for me.
Insurance.
Appointments.
Prescriptions.
Everything.
I had trusted him.
The doctor continued.
“Someone altered your medical history to make it appear as though you had a chronic fertility disorder.”
I closed my eyes.
Luke hadn’t merely lied to me.
He had built a false medical history around me.
He had made me believe my body was defective.
He had convinced me that every dead baby was my fault.
And now I understood why.
Because if I believed I was infertile, I would never ask why my pregnancies kept ending.
The door opened.
A police officer stood outside.
Behind her was a second officer.
My sister Rebecca was with them.
The moment she saw me, she ran to the bedside.
“Oh, Caroline.”
She grabbed my hand carefully.
I began sobbing.
“I should have listened to you.”
“No,” she whispered. “He made sure you couldn’t.”
She kissed my forehead.
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“I called your old workplace.”
“I know.”
“I sent letters.”
I stared at her.
“You sent letters?”
“Dozens.”
Luke had told me Rebecca wanted nothing to do with me.
I had believed him.
The officer introduced herself as Detective Maria Torres.
“Caroline, I need to explain something.”
I nodded.
“Your doctor contacted us because your injuries raised concerns.”
She looked at the nurse.
“Your medical team has preserved the clothing you arrived in, documented your injuries, and secured the original medical records.”
I felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Safety.
