“It’s a lifeline. Keep it on you,” Marcus had said, his eyes dark and steady. “It’s a specialized tactical fob. One click alerts my dispatch that you’re in distress.

Two clicks pull your exact GPS coordinates. Three consecutive clicks means I’m coming in hot, and I’m not calling first.”

“Marcus, please,” I’d said. “You’re a federal agent taking down cartels, not my babysitter.”

He’d gripped my hand, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal. “No. I’m your brother. And I don’t trust the man sleeping next to you.”

Now, sitting on the blood-spotted tile while Dean bragged to his father about the necessity of “teaching a wife respect,” I let my hand slide slowly toward the deep pocket of my cardigan.

Linda, always hyper-aware, watched me move. I raised my head, looking up at her porcelain, judgmental face through the blur of my own watering eyes.