Part 1: THE CLICK OF THE LOCK

The sound I remember most clearly is not Patricia yelling at me.

It is the click.

A small, mechanical click from somewhere beside my shoulder.

The sound of four car doors locking at once.

At first, I didn't understand what it meant.

I was eight months pregnant, awkwardly twisted across the passenger seat of my SUV, reaching toward the center console for my phone. My back hurt. My ankles were swollen. The September heat outside had turned the parking lot into a sheet of white glare.

And my mother-in-law was standing three feet away holding my keys.

"Patricia," I said.

She stared at me through the closed window.

Then she put the keys into her purse.

That was when I understood.

Ten minutes earlier, we had been shopping for baby clothes.

Tiny socks.

A bassinet sheet.

A package of bottles I wasn't sure I would ever use.

Normal things.

Happy things.

At least, they were supposed to be.

Then Patricia had asked me for a key to our apartment.

Not asked, exactly.

Demanded.

"I should have one before the baby comes," she'd said as we pushed our cart toward the parking lot.

I had laughed because I thought she was joking.

She wasn't.

"You don't need a key to our home."

"I'm Daniel's mother."

"I know."

"And what if there's an emergency?"

"Then you call us."

Her mouth tightened.

"What if you don't answer?"

"Then you call Daniel."

"And if he doesn't answer?"

I stopped beside the car.

"Patricia, we're not giving anyone a key."

Her face changed.

It wasn't dramatic.

That was the frightening part.

Her smile disappeared, but her voice became softer.

"So this is you making decisions for my son now?"

"It's our apartment."

"It was his apartment before you moved in."

"And now it's our home."

She reached for the keys in my hand.

I thought she was gesturing.

Then she grabbed them.

"Patricia."

She pulled harder.

My fingers opened more from surprise than weakness.

"What are you doing?"

"You're being hormonal."

"Give me my keys."

"You need to calm down."

"I am calm."

"You don't sound calm."

People were loading groceries twenty yards away. A cart rattled somewhere behind us.

I felt embarrassed before I felt afraid.

That was my mistake.

I kept thinking this was an argument that could be contained with the right tone of voice.

"I need my phone," I said.

It was lying in the cup holder.

Patricia gave a theatrical sigh.

"Fine."

I opened the driver's door and leaned inside.

My belly made bending difficult, so I climbed partly into the seat to reach across.

Then the door slammed behind me.

I turned.

Click.

Patricia's finger was still on the key fob.

"Open the door."

She folded her arms.

"Sit there for a minute."

I stared at her.

"What?"

"You need to calm down."

"Patricia, unlock the car."

"You are getting worked up over nothing."

The sunlight hit the windshield so intensely that I had to squint.

"Unlock the door."

"One minute."

She started walking away.

At first, I thought she was circling around the vehicle.

Then she kept going.

"Patricia!"

She didn't turn.

I grabbed the handle.

Locked.

I hit the unlock button on the door.

Nothing happened.

The key fob was outside.

"Patricia!"

My voice came back at me from the glass.

She crossed the driving lane and stepped onto the sidewalk.

I slammed my palm against the window.

She glanced over her shoulder.

For one second, our eyes met.

Then she walked into the store.

My heart began pounding.

The car had been running earlier, but I had switched it off before we unloaded the cart.

No air-conditioning.

No open windows.

Nothing.

Heat was already gathering beneath my shirt.

The baby shifted hard beneath my ribs.

"Okay," I whispered.

I reached for my phone.

My fingers closed around it.

One percent battery.

I almost laughed.

Of course.

I tried Daniel.

It rang once.

The screen went black.

"No."

I pressed the power button.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Nothing.

My breathing became too fast.

I told myself Patricia would come back.

She had to.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

Two.

Heat pushed against me from every direction.

My forehead dampened.

The leather under my legs felt hot through my dress.

I pounded on the driver's window.

"Help!"

A woman passed at the far end of the row without looking over.

I hit the horn.

Nothing.

Without the ignition, it didn't respond.

The baby kicked again.

A tightening rolled low across my abdomen.

Not labor, I told myself.

Stress.

Just stress.

"Please."

I pressed my face toward the glass.

The world outside shimmered.

Then I saw a young woman in a blue store vest pushing three shopping carts.

She looked toward me.

I started hitting the window with both hands.

Her expression changed.

She abandoned the carts.

She ran.

And when she reached the driver's side and saw my stomach, she shouted something I couldn't hear.

I pointed desperately toward the store.

"Keys!"

She tried the door.

Locked.

Then she pulled out her phone.

People began gathering.

Someone ran inside.

Someone else shouted that they were calling emergency services.

I put my forehead against the steering wheel and tried not to cry.

Then I saw Patricia.

She was coming back through the automatic doors.

Walking.

Not running.

My keys were in her hand.

And when she saw the crowd around my car, she stopped.

For the first time that day, my mother-in-law looked afraid.

Not because I was trapped.

Because there were witnesses.