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…

feature initiated, streaming directly to a secure federal server.

As I pressed down for the second time, my heart stopped. Through the thin, cream-colored wool of my cardigan pocket, a minuscule, piercing red LED light flashed—a brief, microscopic pulse confirming the transmission.

Vance’s eyes, glazed with alcohol but inherently predatory, snapped toward continue reading …