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…

had instructed, his eyes dark, intense, and unwavering. “One click alerts my dispatch system that you’re in distress. Two clicks pull your exact GPS coordinates and activate a live microphone. Three consecutive clicks means I am coming in hot, and I am not calling first.”

Now, sitting on the blood-spotted tile while Vance proudly bragged to his father continue reading …