My husband shoved me, shattering the bathroom mirror. His mother sneered, “Clean up this disgusting mess.” But as I fell, my husband roared, “What’s in your pocket?!” The red LED of my federal distress fob pulsed. Denied the third click, I threw myself onto the broken glass, and…

a protective sibling; he was a seasoned federal agent running tactical operations for a specialized task force.

He had taken one look at the fading yellow bruise on my shoulder, pulled me onto the back porch away from the house’s listening walls, and pressed a heavy, matte-black keychain into my trembling palm.

“It’s a specialized tactical fob,” Marcus continue reading …