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…

backward, the arrogant fury wiping from his face, replaced by a primal, unadulterated panic. He looked at the window, then at Thorne, then down at me. The pieces were clicking together in his alcohol-addled brain, but reality was moving too fast for him to process.

Downstairs, I heard Beatrice shriek—a shrill, ugly sound of sheer terror. Arthur bellowed continue reading …