Luca tore the camera from the wall and crushed it beneath his heel, stomping until the plastic casing broke apart. He crouched beside me, his voice suddenly soft, performative. “You slipped, Jessi. You lost your balance.”
I heard sirens twenty minutes later only because our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, had heard my screams through the open kitchen window.
At the hospital, doctors treated second-degree burns along my arm and side. Thankfully, our daughter’s heartbeat remained strong. Luca told the police it was a tragic domestic accident. Wendy confirmed it.
I said almost nothing to the officers. Because my father had taught me a vital lesson long ago: Never show a thief which lock still works.
EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT, I REFUSED TO GIVE MY LATE FATHER’S HOUSE TO MY HUSBAND—SO HE SHOVED ME INTO A BOILING STOCKPOT
