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…

locking from the outside echoed in the quiet room.

I sat in the dim light, the adrenaline slowly receding to leave behind a throbbing ache in my head and a burning sting in my hand. But my mind was racing with terrifying clarity. I had triggered the alert, but federal operations took time. Warrants, mobilization, tactical briefings—Marcus couldn’t just continue reading …