Lyla
The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the kitchen, but I couldn't enjoy it. My legs trembled. I clutched the doorframe, blinking hard, trying to steady the world tilting around me. The man—what was his name again?—the mechanic, was pointing, his eyes wide with alarm.
"You're bleeding," he said, his voice oddly muffled through the ringing in my ears.
I followed his gaze to my legs.
Blood.
A dark stream was sliding down the inside of my thighs, staining my cotton dress and pooling on the floor beneath me.
I didn't panic—not yet. My mind refused to process what I was seeing.
"No," I whispered, one hand clutching my belly as a cramp tore through me, sharper than before.
The mechanic was already moving, his hands out. "Ma'am, you need to sit down. You need—"
A police siren screamed through the street, pulling up in front of our house.
