Chapter 7 - A Hit and Run Exposed
The front gates of the Lincoln Park brownstone had barely clicked shut behind Ethan and his attorney when a second wave of vehicles arrived.
Two unmarked black sedans and a marked Chicago Police cruiser pulled up to the curb, blocking Ethan’s Uber from pulling away. Four agents in windbreakers emblazoned with *FBI* and *IRS-Criminal Investigation* stepped out, badges hanging from lanyards around their necks.
From the bay window of my second-story living room, I watched the entire scene unfold with detached, surgical clarity.
Ethan tried to turn back toward my front steps, his arms flailing, screaming my name. But the federal agents moved with terrifying, practiced efficiency. In less than ten seconds, they had him pinned against the hood of the black sedan.
His designer sweatshirt was yanked up; steel handcuffs clicked around his wrists. Special Agent Miller pulled a thick white envelope—an arrest warrant—from his coat and read Ethan his rights right there on the sidewalk, in full view of our neighbors walking their labradoodles.
"It’s done," Rebecca said softly from behind me, setting a legal folder on the credenza. "The U.S. Attorney’s office unsealed the indictment thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Aggravated wire fraud, identity theft, tax evasion, and attempted second-degree murder."
I didn't answer. I pressed my palm flat against the cold windowpane.
Down below, Ethan was forced into the back of the cruiser. Before the door slammed, he lifted his head and looked directly up at the window where I stood. His face was a mask of unvarnished hatred and desperation. He mouthed something—perhaps a curse, perhaps a final plea—before the officer pushed his head down and slammed the door shut.
The cruiser pulled away, its red and blue lights flashing silently against the brick facades of the quiet neighborhood.
"Lauren?" Rebecca’s voice shifted from professional detachment to genuine concern. "Are you alright?"
A sudden, breathtaking wave of pain ripped across my abdomen.
It wasn't like the dull, practice cramps from the previous night. This was a blinding, white-hot tear that started in my pelvic wall and wrapped around my spine like a vice tightening beyond its breaking point.
I gasped, dropping my teacup. The porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor, spraying hot tea across my bare ankles.
"Lauren!" Rebecca rushed forward, catching me by the elbows as my knees buckled.
"My water," I choked out, looking down in horror as warm, clear fluid soaked through my linen trousers, pooling on the floor alongside the spilled tea.
A violent, involuntary spasm seized my diaphragm. My breath caught in my throat.
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"Thirty-two weeks," I whispered, panic finally breaking through the ice of my emotional numbness. "She’s only thirty-two weeks... Rebecca, call an ambulance. Now!"
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