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…

arm. I went dead weight for a fraction of a second, causing him to adjust his stance to support me. As he shifted, I drove my right elbow backward with every ounce of strength I had left in my body, burying the bone deep into his floating ribs.

Vance let out a sharp gasp of pain, his grip loosening just enough. I didn’t stop. I dropped my weight, twisting continue reading …