Fragments from a short story "Timing"

Posting some excerpts from my short story Timing. The premise is, of course, a pregnant social worker who, on the same day as she witnesses the immediate aftermath of a woman who has just killed two of her children, goes into labor prematurely.

Flashes of red were swirling, silent against the graying houses, as we
pulled down Lemon Street. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the woman who'd
called for help. This mother had called us so many times. I saw her
emaciated face, her three children dirty and overly friendly. She'd call at all
times of the day and night and we all got to know her voice on the hotline.
There were the hysterical screaming calls saying that she was going to kill
herself, and the calm ones that insisted we take the children away. The woman
was young, only twenty-one and three kids already. We'd sent her to Parents
Anonymous, called Child Protective Services, the police. Still there were these
desperate calls to do something.

"Shit, look at that, shit." Evan brought the van to a stop. I could feel my pulse in my throat. There was a rhythmic downpour of rain now, and through the swish of the windshield wipers I could see two police cruisers, an ambulance, and a crowd of people huddled on the lawn next to a faded purple house. I could taste the acid of my stomach in the back of my throat.

Evan climbed the stairs two at a time, while I staggered behind, trying to
ignore the taut faces of several gaping bystanders. Cat urine and a sour smell
invaded my nostrils as I went up the narrow side staircase. I wavered, feeling
dizzy, as I reached the upstairs landing. Evan was stopped just outside the
apartment door, standing with a lone police officer. There was a sense of time
slowing, blurring, as though I were moving through deep water. Then Evan,
turning to me in a rush, time doubling. A baby was crying, inconsolable.

"Don't Annah," Evan's outstretched palm pushed into my belly, "don't come any
closer." It was too late. In the front room of the flat I saw blood that streaked across dingy walls and the form of another police officer crouched down to the mother, who held her smallest child in her arms. The officer was murmuring in a hushed tone to the woman, while Evan and I stood motionless, watching. The dark-haired policeman in the hall with us took a step in front of the apartment door, his eyes downcast.

"You shouldn't be up here, you'll have to go outside," the policeman said and waved his hand toward the stairwell.
"She called us. She called and we drove right over. I don't understand..." I told the officer. I felt like vomiting, or falling backward. I could smell the blood, that's what it was, the blood from her other two children. The little girl, who was maybe six, was lying on the hardwood floor to the left of the doorway, almost in the dining room. She was wearing a blood-soaked nightshirt with the image of Tweety on the front. The boy was older by a year or two, and he was in the living room, curled into a fetal position, facing the apartment entrance with his eyes still open.