He Said I Stumbled. The Baby Monitor in My Apron Heard Everything.

Luke’s backhand caught me across the cheekbone and drove me hard into the black evaporator, shoulder-first. The metal groaned under my weight as I slid toward the cold floor, curling my arm around my stomach.
"You stumbled," he said, slamming his heavy palm against the wall right beside my ear. "Say it, Cora."

I am thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and for four months my husband and his mother have been secretly replacing my prenatal vitamins with crushed sedatives to manufacture a paper trail of instability. If Maribel gets the emergency custody order signed tonight, they take my child and sell the farm out from under his sick father. But under the heavy canvas of my barn apron, the baby monitor I slipped from the feed bucket was still running, its tiny red recording light pulsing against my ribs.

Bootsteps scraped the threshold, and Maribel appeared in the doorway, holding a plastic bottle of blue capsules in her gloved hand.
"Make sure she takes the blue ones before the clerk calls back," she said coldly.
Luke glanced down. Through the coarse cloth, that steady crimson dot caught his eye.

His jaw tightened, and his fingers reached straight for my apron pocket. I twisted my shoulder against the steel frame, pressing my thumb flat over the memory card slot to shield the footage. His grip clamped around the device, the red light flaring between our fingers.