Eleven minutes after my husband drove me home from femur surgery, my mother-in-law kicked one of my crutches out from under me. While I scr:eamed in agony, she and my husband dragged me into the garage, dumped me on the freezing concrete, locked the heavy door, and withheld my pain medication. They assumed the suffering would eventually break me and force me to sign. But they had completely forgotten about a secret hidden in the far corner of the garage... and I began crawling toward it.

Every inch was a private, unholy hell.

When I dragged my upper torso forward, my left foot dragged behind me. The movement sent a jolt of liquid fire straight up my spine, so intense that my jaw locked shut and the taste of blood filled my mouth as I bit through my lower lip.

"One," I grunted through clenched teeth, my arms trembling under the weight of my torso.

I pulled again.

The concrete scraped against my stomach, tearing my thin cotton hospital gown. The rough surface chewed through the skin of my forearms, leaving smear marks of red on the gray dust.

"Two."

I stopped, my forehead resting against the cold floor, gasping for air.

The pain in my leg was mutating. The hospital local anesthetic was fading fast now, replaced by a deep, rhythmic throbbing that felt like a sledgehammer striking my open bone with every beat of my heart.

From the other side of the garage door, I heard the faint clinking of glassware.

Evelyn was setting the dining table. They were going to have dinner.

They were sitting in my house, eating food bought with my money, while I bled on the floor six inches below their feet.

"You took everything from my grandmother," I whispered into the dark, my tears mixing with the dust on the floor. "You will not take me."

I reached forward again.

Three feet. Four feet.

My left hand struck the sharp metal leg of a storage rack. A box of rusted screws wobbled on the middle shelf, crashing down around me in a noisy shower of metal.

I froze, holding my breath, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Would they open the door? Would they come out to see what the noise was?

I waited thirty agonizing seconds.

No lock turned. No door opened. To Ryan and Evelyn, any noise coming from the garage was just the pathetic flailing of a broken animal. They didn't care.

I dragged myself past the spilled screws, my knees raw, my surgical leg feeling like an anchor made of molten lead.

By the time my fingers touched the cold plastic of the green Christmas storage bin, my entire body was drenched in a cold, sticky sweat. My vision was tunneling, dark blue shadows creeping in from the edges of my sight.

I shoved the heavy plastic bin aside with my shoulder.

There it was.

The small, dark grey steel cube sat bolted to the concrete foundation.

My fingers were trembling so violently I could barely align them with the digital keypad.

4... 8... 1... 9... 2... #

The small LED panel glowed green. A satisfying motorized click echoed in the corner.

I pulled the heavy steel door open.

Inside, resting on top of a thick Manila folder, was the sleek black shape of a prepaid Samsung phone, its battery bar showing full power. Beside it sat a small amber plastic bottle containing twelve white pills.

I didn't care about the phone yet. I reached for the bottle first.

My shaking hands struggled with the child-proof cap. I didn't bother trying to twist it open properly; I smashed the plastic bottle against the corner of the steel safe until the lid popped off, spilling the pills onto the floor.

I grabbed two of the white tablets, shoved them into my dry mouth, and swallowed them raw, ignoring the bitter chalky taste that coated my throat.

Then, my fingers wrapped around the cold body of the burner phone.

I powered it on. The screen illuminated my blood-stained face in a soft blue light.

I didn't call 911 first.

If I called 911, the local police would arrive, Ryan would put on his charming, distressed-husband mask, claim I had fallen down the stairs in a state of post-anesthetic psychosis, and try to handle the paramedics at the front door.

I needed someone who couldn't be charmed. Someone who knew the law better than Ryan knew his own name.

I dialed the private number I had memorized two weeks ago.

The line rang twice.