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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…

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click, I was dead. I had fractions of a second to act.

I didn’t think. I reacted. I threw myself forward, my hand shooting out of my pocket and slamming into the floor right where the largest, jagged shard of the broken mirror lay. I gripped the razor-sharp edge of the glass tight, feeling it slice cleanly into the flesh of my palm. I let out a blood-curdling,continue reading …

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