From Prison Bars to Platinum Stars

The blue and red lights flashed, and the wail of the siren cut through the Nashville night.

My husband, Ethan, stood over me, his face a mask of concern, but his eyes were cold as he painted me a dangerous, jealous woman.

The police officer' s notepad was out, a white sheet covered something on the road, and my vintage Mustang was mangled. "No," I whispered, "I wasn't driving. Sabrina was."

But Ethan smiled, whispering a chilling confession: "You're pregnant, you see. You get... confused."