Chapter 5 - The Ultrasound That Lied
The Cook County Department of Corrections visiting room smelled of industrial floor stripper, cold metal, and the stale grease of vending machine coffee.
I sat behind the thick scratched plexiglass partition, a small leather handbag resting on my lap.
When the heavy steel door on the opposite side buzzed open, Madison Reed was pushed into the small booth by a female correctional officer.
The transformation was astonishing.
Gone was the fuchsia silk dress, the blow-dried blonde curls, the Cartier diamond earrings, and the arrogant, triumphant smirk of a woman who thought she was about to inherit an empire. Madison was wearing an oversized orange jumpsuit that swallowed her thin frame. Her makeup had been washed away, revealing pale, blotchy skin, dark hollows under her eyes, and oily hair pulled back into a hasty, messy knot.
Her wrists were handcuffed to a chain wrapped around her waist.
When she saw me, her lips pulled back into a feral sneer. She sat down heavily on the metal stool and picked up the red plastic receiver with her chained hands.
I picked up mine.
“Come to gloat, Claire?” Madison spat through the perforated speaker. “Come to show off your precious stomach? You think you’ve won because your daddy’s old friends pulled some strings?”
“I don't need to gloat, Madison,” I said calmly. “I came to deliver a message from the Cook County State’s Attorney.”
Madison laughed—a sharp, shrill bark that had no humor in it. “I don't care what they say! I’m pregnant! In Illinois, they don't remand pregnant women on non-violent charges without bail! My lawyer is filing an emergency appeal this afternoon!”
I opened my handbag, pulled out a folded white paper, and pressed it against the glass.
It was the certified blood report from the prison medical ward, signed by Dr. Robert Chen, Chief of Forensic Medicine.
*Patient: Reed, Madison.*
*hCG Beta Quantitative: < 2 mIU/mL.*
*Result: Negative for pregnancy.*
*Toxicology Screen: Positive for synthetic medroxyprogesterone and synthetic gonadotropin stimulants.*
Madison’s sneer froze.
Her eyes scanned the bold black letters on the document. Her breathing hitched, her chest rising and falling rapidly under the stiff orange fabric of her uniform.
“You... you bribed the lab,” she whispered, but the defiance had vanished from her voice, replaced by the sheer, hollow terror of an amateur whose bluff had been utterly demolished.
“You aren't pregnant, Madison,” I said, keeping my tone matter-of-fact. “You’ve never been pregnant. You’ve been buying synthetic hormones from an unlicensed clinic in Cicero to fabricate false positive home tests, morning sickness, and hormonal bloat. You wanted Grant to believe he had a child on the way so he would sign over the bearer bonds from our safe deposit box.”
Madison slammed her cuffed hands against the metal counter. The chain clattered violently. “He was supposed to be mine! He promised me! He said you were a cold, frigid bitch who cared more about spreadsheets than his happiness! He told me he loved me!”
“Grant doesn't love anyone, Madison,” I said softly. “He didn't love me, and he certainly didn't love you. Grant loves whatever mirror makes him look like a king. You gave him a reflection he liked, and in return, you tried to murder me and my baby.”
Madison leaned close to the plexiglass, her eyes wild, her breath fogging the clear plastic. “I didn't put those pills in your medicine cabinet! Grant did! He took the bottle from my glove compartment! He knew what was in them! He asked me for something that would make you lose the baby so you couldn't use the child to hold the estate over his head!”
I paused.
A small, cold chill settled at the base of my neck.
“Is that what he told you?” I asked.
“Yes!” Madison shrieked, tears of rage finally breaking through her crust of pride. “He sat in my apartment two weeks ago, crying into his scotch, saying that if you had that baby, your father’s trust would permanently bypass him and go directly into a child’s trust! He said, *‘I need that pregnancy gone, Madison. I need her broken so she signs the power of attorney over to me.’* He knew, Claire! He knew every single thing!”
I looked into Madison’s eyes.
She was a liar, an opportunist, a thief, and a sociopath. But in this moment, looking into the raw, unvarnished hatred and terror in her face, I knew she wasn't lying about this.
Grant hadn't just been a reckless coward who failed to check a bottle of pills.
He had known.
He had looked at my swollen stomach, felt our daughter kick against his palm in our marriage bed, and then driven to his mistress’s apartment to collect the poison meant to rip her from my womb.
A terrifying stillness washed over me.
The last lingering shred of grief—that tiny, pathetic sliver of my heart that still remembered the boy who had kissed me under the cherry blossoms at Northwestern fifteen years ago—withered and died, turning to fine grey ash.
“Thank you, Madison,” I said quietly.
Madison blinked, confused. “For what?”
“For giving Detective Reynolds the motive he needed to elevate Grant’s charges to premeditated attempted murder with special aggravating circumstances.”
I pointed toward the corner of the booth, where a small red recording light on the ceiling was blinking steadily.
Madison’s mouth fell open. “You... you recorded this?”
“No,” I said, standing up and smoothing my black dress. “The Cook County State’s Attorney recorded this. You just traded your testimony against Grant Holloway for a reduction in your sentence from twenty-five years to twelve.”
I hung up the red receiver.
Madison began screaming, pounding her chained fists against the glass, but I couldn't hear a sound through the reinforced barrier.
May you like
I turned my back on her and walked through the heavy security doors, stepping out into the cold Chicago rain with my head held high.
***