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…

line. I moved with agonizing slowness, acting as though a severe panic attack was paralyzing my motor functions. I stuttered, asking Thorne a nonsensical question about paragraph four, subsection B, intentionally mispronouncing legal terms to drag out the seconds.

“Just sign the paper, you stupid bitch!” Vance screamed, stepping forward, the metal handle continue reading …