Who Was Behind My Miscarriages?

Ian came out of the bathroom after his shower.

A towel was wrapped around his waist, and water still dripped from his hair. He paused when he saw me sitting up in bed.

"Why are you awake?"

I didn’t answer. I opened my hand.

The silver lock charm gleamed coldly in the dim light.

Ian looked at it and quickly frowned.

"Again?"

"It was under my pillow."

My voice was quiet.

"Our bedroom door was locked all night. No one came in except you."

He was silent for two seconds, then picked up his phone from the bedside table.

"I’ll ask building management to check the security footage."

"Will that help?"

He stopped before making the call.

"This is the third time."

Weariness crossed Ian’s face.

"Nina, a charm can’t cause a miscarriage."

My fingers closed around it.

Its notched edge dug into my palm. The pain cleared my head.

"But every time it appears, something happens to the baby."

"That’s a coincidence."

"The same coincidence doesn’t happen three times."

Ian reached for the charm, but I jerked my hand away.

His hand froze in midair.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Call the police."

I picked up my phone.

"The person who left it might have put fingerprints on it. If we give it to the police, they might find something."

The screen had barely lit up when Ian caught my wrist.

His grip wasn’t hard, but I couldn’t pull away.

"It’s three in the morning. You have a history of recurrent miscarriages. The doctor said you shouldn’t get worked up."

"Get some sleep. I’ll have someone look into it tomorrow."

I looked at his hand.

"Why do you stop me from calling the police every time?"

His expression finally turned cold.

"Because I don’t want everyone to hear that my pregnant wife is imagining threats and treating a silver charm like a murder weapon."

His words struck me like a slap.

I slowly raised my head.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need rest."

"After we lost the first two babies, I spent a whole year in therapy. Every time I asked what you found out, you told me to let it go. Now a third charm has turned up in our bedroom, and you’re still telling me to let it go."

I spoke slowly, "Ian, are you protecting me, or the person who left those charms? Do you know who it is?"

A flash of impatience crossed his eyes.

"How would I know?"

"Is it Willa Lane?"

The moment I said her name, his expression stiffened, only for an instant.

It was so brief I could have missed it.

But I saw it.

"Stop imagining things."

He picked up his jacket and walked out of the bedroom.