Chapter 9 - The Name They Chose"Don't call her that," I whispered.

Trent laughed. "She is our daughter, Emily. You can't erase me with a police report."

Alex mouthed, Hang up. Instead, I put the call on speaker so he could hear. "Where's Nicole?"

"Resting. She gets emotional when people pressure her to lie."

A rustling sound came through the phone. Nicole's voice surfaced for one breath: "Emily, I—"

The line disconnected.

I called Detective Bell, then stared at the dark screen. I'd spent two years being told every frightening thing was my imagination. Now I had people who wrote down what happened and acted on it. I was still afraid. I was no longer alone inside that fear.

Bell explained that investigators had contacted Nicole and she was physically safe, though unwilling to provide a full statement. Nothing about the situation was simple, and I wasn't going to pretend it was.

That night, I read the copy of the custody folder Bell had obtained with proper process. It contained invented notes about me missing prenatal appointments and statements describing Alex as a violent influence. One document proposed that Richard and Helen serve as emergency guardians.

On the cover page, in Trent's handwriting, was a name: CHARLOTTE.

I had never told them I wanted to name my daughter Charlotte. I had considered it only once, quietly, after seeing Mom's favorite book on Alex's shelf.

"How did they know?" I asked.

Alex frowned. "Did you say it near your phone?"

"No. I wrote it in my journal."

The journal was locked in the drawer beside our bed. Trent once insisted he didn't know where the key was. I'd found it missing the week after our anniversary.

On the last page of the folder was a typed plan for a "voluntary relocation" immediately after delivery. It listed a private recovery residence outside the county.

The contact at that residence was someone I recognized.

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My obstetrician's office manager.

For years, Trent had called our unborn child 'my heir' whenever Richard was listening. Alone with me, he barely remembered to ask about appointments. Now I understood why Helen had started leaving catalogs of nursery furniture on the counter and whispering about how much better a baby would be raised under her roof. They weren't making plans with me. They were making plans around me, as if I were an inconvenient stop on the way to what they wanted.