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…

my hip. The arrogant smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, violent suspicion.

“What the hell is in your pocket?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. He took a heavy step toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my sweater. “What are you hiding, Sarah?”

Panic, cold and absolute, seized my throat. If he found the fob before the third continue reading …