“Oh, my God,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

Thomas stepped past my wheelchair, his boots crunching on drywall dust and broken plastic.

“Stay back, Thomas,” Officer Miller said, raising a hand to stop him. “Let us clear the room first.”

The second officer walked into the nursery, his boots cautious as he navigated the debris.

The yellow walls, which I had painted myself during my second trimester, were gouged with deep, jagged lines.

Someone had used a heavy tool, perhaps a claw hammer, to tear into the drywall.

Flakes of plaster covered the stuffed elephant sitting in the corner, its plush gray head severed from its body.

“He did this,” I said, my chest tightening so hard I could barely draw breath. “Ryan did this.”

Thomas stood beside me, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck strained.

His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles white.

“He’s a coward,” Thomas said, his voice low and vibrating with a quiet, dangerous rage.

Officer Miller looked over his shoulder at us, his face grim.

“Is your husband currently in possession of a firearm, Mrs. Parker?” Miller asked.