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…
Marcus stood at the base of the stairs. He calmly reached into his vest, retrieved his secured smartphone, and tapped the screen. The audio from my panic button blasted through the quiet house, amplified and crystal clear.
“All I asked was where your paycheck went.” My small, trembling voice. The sickening, wet THUD of flesh and continue reading …
