“Veronica,” I whispered, “I’m due in two weeks. Where am I supposed to go?”
She shrugged, not even looking at me.
“Motel? Shelter? Not my problem.”
I stood up, gripping the counter for balance.
“Dad would never have allowed this.”
She turned and smiled, cold and perfect.
“Dad’s not here,” she said flatly. “I am.”
Before I could say another word, she pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Mike? Yeah. Come over. We’ve got a problem.”
That was the first time I heard about Mike, her boyfriend. Apparently, she’d been seeing him while Dad was in and out of the hospital.
He showed up within the hour. He was a big guy, overly tanned and smug, looking around like he already owned the place.
Veronica didn’t waste time.
“Break the door,” she told him calmly. “She doesn’t belong here.”
I called the police. My voice was shaking, but I got the words out:
“My stepmother is trying to force me out. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. Please, send someone.”
