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…

wall. The drywall cracked under the impact. Two agents swarmed him instantly, forcing him to the floor, violently ratcheting cold steel handcuffs around his wrists.

I lay on the carpet, gasping for air, rubbing my bruised throat. Marcus knelt beside me, his large hand gently touching my shoulder. “You’re safe, Sarah. I’ve got you.”

Downstairs, the house continue reading …