Chapter 3 - The Tables Turn
"Sir, do not touch the baby!"
The first responder didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. With a swift, practiced motion, he stepped directly between Thomas and me, planting a firm, authoritative hand squarely against Thomas's chest and shoving him backward out of the bathroom threshold and into the hallway.
Thomas stumbled hard, his heels catching on the edge of the hallway rug, and he slammed his shoulder against the opposite wall. He let out an outraged gasp, his face flushing a furious, mottled red as pride and panic warred within him.
"You can't touch me!" Thomas snarled, pointing a shaking finger at the officer's chest. "This is my house! She is my wife! You're trespassing on domestic property based on a hysterical phone call! I demand your badge number right now!"
"Keep your hands to yourself and keep your voice down, or you'll find yourself in handcuffs in the back of a cruiser faster than you can blink," the officer warned, his tone icy and unwavering. He kept his body firmly positioned as a human shield between Thomas and me.
Before Thomas could formulate his next angry retort or launch into another defensive tirade, the heavy front door downstairs creaked open wider, followed by the sound of firm, rapid footsteps marching down the hallway toward the back of the house. Two more figures appeared at the edge of the hallway—paramedics carrying heavy medical kits, accompanied by a towering senior police sergeant whose expression made it clear he was in no mood for games.
And behind the sergeant, stepping quietly into the corridor, was a figure Thomas certainly hadn't expected to see tonight: my older brother, Marcus.
I had managed to hit speed-dial for Marcus right before dialing 911, though I hadn't known if the call went through. Marcus lived only ten minutes away, and when the dispatcher took my emergency call, protocol had automatically cross-referenced my emergency contacts for a local relative. Marcus had arrived simultaneously with the second wave of police units.
When Marcus rounded the corner and locked eyes with me—sitting on the bathroom floor, shivering, lip split, wrist swollen, holding a newborn baby—the look on his face shifted from mild concern to absolute, lethal fury. His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
"Marcus," Thomas stammered, trying to quickly pivot and regain control of the narrative as he saw my brother approaching. "Thank God you're here. Sarah is having some kind of severe psychological break. She's delusional, she locked herself in the bathroom, she's refusing medical care—"
Marcus didn't even break his stride. He didn't yell, he didn't curse, and he didn't waste a single breath arguing. He simply closed the distance between himself and Thomas with terrifying speed, reared back, and drove a powerful, perfectly placed right hook straight into the center of Thomas's jaw.
Crack.
The sound of the punch echoed sharply through the hallway. Thomas let out a sharp, choked gasp as his legs completely buckled beneath him. He spun half around from the sheer force of the impact and crashed heavily to the hardwood floor, clutching his jaw and groaning in agony.
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"Don't you ever," Marcus growled, towering over him with his fists clenched tightly at his sides, "speak about my sister ever again."
"Hey! Break it up! Hands where I can see them!" the sergeant shouted, though neither he nor the other officers made any move to arrest Marcus. In fact, one of the younger patrol officers conveniently looked the other way, clearly holding zero sympathy for the man currently groaning on the floor.
