Chapter 3

Calista's POV

My legs gave out, and my 32-week belly seized with a cramp-like pain. I bit the back of my hand, swallowing a scream that almost tore through my throat.

The pounding on the door abruptly stopped.

"Mrs. Monroe, are you okay?" A young, professionally concerned male voice replaced the madness outside. "I'm the night lobby staff. I apologize for knocking so aggressively—we brought your cat up!"

Holding my bulging belly, I used the wall to inch my way toward the door.

I pressed my trembling eye against the peephole.

Under the dim yellow sensor light in the hallway stood a tall, thin young man. He wore the building's signature dark blue concierge uniform, a gold name tag pinned to his left chest. In both hands, he held a bulging black pet carrier, its zipper slightly open.

"Ma'am, the cat is traumatized. She really needs to get back into a familiar environment," he urged gently through the door.

My nerves, stretched to the breaking point, relaxed just a fraction at the sight of that uniform.

I let out a long breath, fought through the heaviness pulling at my lower abdomen, and rested my hand on the metal knob of the deadbolt.

"Meow—"

An incredibly lazy, faint meow came from right behind me, entirely without warning.

My hand froze on the lock.

Mechanically, inch by inch, I turned my head.

Under the warm glow of the living room floor lamp, a fluffy long-haired Persian cat crawled out from under the sofa, stretched elegantly, and began licking her front paw.

It was Piper.

Piper had never left this apartment.

"Mrs. Monroe? Are you still there? I'm going to let her out now." The male voice outside was still gentle, but now it sounded like a grim reaper beckoning from hell.

I yanked my hand back from the knob as if electrocuted, stumbling backward. My heart pounded so hard it threatened to shatter my ribs.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed both hands against my trembling jaw and squeezed out an apologetic tone: "I'm so sorry! I just woke up and I'm only in my underwear. Let me go grab a coat, give me two minutes, okay?"

"Of course. Take your time," his voice remained polite, but I heard a spine-chilling scuffing sound—he was pressing his ear right against the door.

I fled barefoot into the master bedroom's en-suite bathroom, locked the door, and tremblingly dialed the property's internal security hotline.

It rang once before being answered, but the background was pure chaos—running, shouting, and blaring sirens.

"Management! Speak!" The operator was basically screaming.

"I'm the tenant on the 12th floor! Did you send someone up?!"

"12th floor?!" The operator sounded horrified. "Mrs. Monroe, a fire alarm was triggered in the basement electrical room five minutes ago! Security is all down here investigating! Elevators are locked and powered down—we did not send anyone to your floor! DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR!"

The sledgehammer smashed into my brain again.

The pounding on my front door resumed, significantly harder this time. The man outside lost all patience, his voice turning grim: "Mrs. Monroe, does it take this long to put on a coat? Your cat is doing very poorly."

I walked into the living room, grabbed a fruit knife, clutched the handle with a death grip, and screamed at the front door with everything I had. "I've called 911!! Homicide detectives will surround this building in five minutes! Get the hell out of here!!"

My scream echoed through the empty living room.

Outside, there were no footsteps, no cursing. Even their breathing seemed to vanish.

Panic crept up my ankles. Holding the knife, I crept slowly toward the door and pressed my eye to the peephole again.

Pitch black.

Someone had used a finger, or chewed gum, to block the peephole from the outside.

The next second, a gut-wrenching screech of scraping metal erupted from the lock cylinder.

The sound of professional lock-picking tools probing the mechanism.

"Mrs. Monroe, are you having a bout of pregnancy depression?" The man's voice slipped through the crack of the door, laced with vile amusement, though his hands never stopped picking the lock. "Don't be afraid. We'll come right in and check on your well-being."

"Get away! GET AWAY!"

I backed away in a complete breakdown, tears streaming uncontrollably. One hand gripping the knife, the other dialing 911.

"Ma'am, we have your location pinned! Patrol is en route, estimated arrival in three to five minutes! Please retreat to an inner room and defend yourself!"

Realizing they were out of time, the men outside finally dropped the act and started violently busting the lock cylinder with a heavy tool. The heavy security door shook violently with every blow, dust raining down. The primary deadbolt made a sickening snap as the metal broke.

Amidst the deafening crashes, a suffocating whisper drifted through the bottom of the door.

It was the man, lowering his voice in frustration: "Damn it, heavy-duty core—we're out of time!"

"And didn't he say the husband is home? If we bust in and—"

"Relax. Her husband is out of town in the next city. Tonight, she's home alone."

It was the woman's voice—the one who called saying she saw Piper.