The security guard’s voice trembled with undeniable panic when he finally connected with me on my mobile phone.
“Ma’am, you really need to get down to level three of the parking structure immediately.”
I was seven months pregnant and still clutching the warm ultrasound photograph of my daughter’s face as I walked out of the maternity clinic doors.
Only ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the glowing monitor, listening to the doctor reassure me that everything about the pregnancy looked perfect.
By the time I rounded the corner into the parking garage, that entire sense of security had vanished into thin air.
My metallic blue SUV looked like it had been shredded by a furious mob.
Every single window had been shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds of glass, and all four tires lay flat against the concrete floor.
