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…

slamming his fist onto the bedside table.

Thorne sighed, a sound of profound boredom, and bent down to retrieve the pen. “Take a deep breath, Mrs. Sterling. Just a signature on the bottom line of the first three pages.”

I took the pen again, forcing tears to stream down my face. I brought the nib down to the paper, hovering millimeters above the signature continue reading …