Eight Months Pregnant: Living as the Police Chief's Secret
Eight months into my pregnancy, my husband finally makes time from his police duties to go to a prenatal checkup with me for the first time.
The moment we step into the hospital, his satellite-encrypted phone buzzes urgently. The caller ID flashes briefly, and just like that, the man who's always calm and collected panics.
"Honey, it's a red alert. Another international fugitive just crossed the border. I… I'm sorry…"
He's clearly anxious, yet his tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. After apologizing, he rushes off.
As I watch his SUV speed out of sight, my fist clenches tightly, crumpling the prenatal checkup sheet. I flag down a cab, slide into the car, and swiftly instruct the driver, "Follow that car. Don't lose it."
A Red Notice for a fugitive? What a joke.
My father, who works at the National Security Agency, barely catches wind of a notice like that. Yet, somehow, a mere police chief who only assists with cases is suddenly tasked with catching a high-priority criminal.
Fine, then. I can't wait to meet the superior who's given him such an urgent assignment.