Chapter 2 - The Attack
The world shattered in a fraction of a second.
Marissa let out an animalistic shriek. Before anyone could react, she lunged around Preston’s left shoulder, her hands clawing wildly at my hair and dress.
“Marissa! No!” my mother screamed.
Preston turned instantly to grab her arms, but Darren—thinking his girlfriend was being attacked—blindly tackled Preston from the side. The two heavy men crashed onto the wooden deck, knocking over a folding table and sending glasses shattering across the patio stones.
I was left completely unprotected.
I stumbled backward, my hands instantly rising to cover my belly. “Marissa, stop! The baby!”
“This is what you get!” Marissa roared. Her face was contorted into a hideous, terrifying mask of pure hatred. “This is what you get for thinking you're better than family!”
She didn't punch me. She didn't grab my hair.
With all her weight behind her, wearing heavy, steel-toed work boots she’d worn from her brief stint at a warehouse, Marissa drew her right leg back and kicked me straight in the center of my pregnant stomach.
THUD.
The impact felt like a cannonball striking my abdomen.
A sickening, wet sensation tore through my deep core muscles. The air burst out of my lungs in a violent gasp. My vision exploded into brilliant white stars, followed instantly by a suffocating, terrifying darkness.
I didn't fall onto the grass; I collapsed like a felled tree, my knees buckling beneath me as I hit the gravel driveway.
“LAURA!” Preston’s voice roared—a sound I had never heard come from his chest, a sound of pure, unbridled agony and primal fury.
I lay on my side on the hard gravel, curling my arms around my belly in an instinctual, desperate attempt to shield my child.
Inside me, the violent, rhythmic kicks that had filled my morning were gone.
There was no heel pressing against my palm. No flutter. No movement.
Only a sudden, icy, terrifying silence.
“She’s not breathing!” someone screamed from the crowd. “Oh my God, she kicked her!”
My mother collapsed to her knees beside me, sobbing hysterically, reaching out with hands that trembled so wildly she couldn't touch me. “Laura! Baby! Look at Mom! Look at Mom!”
I couldn't look at her. I couldn't speak. I lay in the dust, hyperventilating, every ragged breath feeling like crushed glass in my lungs. I pressed my hand against my lower stomach, praying, begging, screaming in my mind.
Move, please. Move, little girl. Kick me. Please kick me.
Nothing.
Marissa stood over me, her chest heaving, her work boot still dusted with the dirt from my belly. The adrenaline of her rage seemed to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, flickering panic as she looked around at the horrified faces of her neighbors, her father, her mother.
“She... she pushed me!” Marissa stammered, stepping backward, her hands waving wildly. “You all saw it! She bumped into me! It was an accident!”
Heavy, measured footsteps crunched across the gravel.
Preston stood up from the patio. Darren was lying on the deck behind him, groaning, holding his broken nose where Preston had struck him off.
Preston walked toward Marissa.
He didn't run. He didn't scream. He walked with a terrifying, absolute composure that froze every single person in that backyard into complete silence. The ambient country music sounded grotesque in the background.
Preston stepped directly into Marissa’s personal space. He was six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, and dressed in his sharp charcoal slacks. He looked down at her like an Executioner looking at a pest.
Marissa swallowed hard, taking a trembling step back. “Preston... listen, she started it—"
“You just,” Preston said, his voice dropping into a resonant, lethal cadence that echoed off the garage walls, “committed a felony in the first degree.”
Marissa blinked, her lip quivering. “What?”
“Aggravated battery on a pregnant person,” Preston stated, staring into her pupils with eyes that held no human warmth. “Federal jurisdiction under the Unborn Victims of Violence Act of 2004, section 18 United States Code 1841. You committed a violent crime against a federal judge's family on video.”
He pointed up toward the corner of my parents’ garage, where a high-definition ring camera was mounted, its blue recording light blinking steadily.
Marissa’s face turned ash-gray.
“Preston, please!” my father shouted, running over from the grill, his face red with beer and panic. “She’s your sister-in-law! It’s a family disagreement! We don't need to involve the law!”
Preston didn't even turn his head to look at my father. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, dialed three digits, and put the call on speakerphone.
“Emergency Services,” the dispatcher answered.
“My name is Preston Hale,” he said, his voice perfectly clear, perfectly calm, utterly terrifying. “I am a United States District Judge. My six-month pregnant wife has just been subjected to a severe physical assault at 412 Maple Street. I require an advanced life support ambulance immediately.”
“Sir, is the suspect still on scene?”
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Preston looked down at Marissa.
“Yes,” Preston said into the phone. “The suspect is Marissa Miller. Send four patrol units. If she attempts to leave this driveway, I will personally detain her using lethal force.”
