My husband ordered me to lie about what happened beside the well, but for the first time, I looked him in the eyes and said, “No.”

The front door was bolted with a heavy deadbolt, and the brass key wasn't in the lock.

"Bitch!" Mark roared from the top of the stairs, his voice echoing with murderous fury as he stumbled upright, his footsteps crashing down the wooden steps behind me with terrifying speed.

I scrambled across the entryway tile, my hands frantically patting the small wooden console table by the front door where we usually dumped our keys, mail, and sunglasses.

Nothing. Just a stack of unread utility bills and a ceramic bowl full of loose change.

"You're not going anywhere!" Mark’s shadow fell over me from behind.

I whipped around just as he lunged, his heavy hands grabbing the front of my shirt and hauling me backward off my feet. I slammed hard against the entryway wall, the impact rattling my teeth, but my hand—flailing blindly in panic—swept across the edge of the small shoe rack beneath the console.

My fingers brushed against a heavy, cold piece of metal tucked behind a pair of rubber gardening boots.

The spare key.

Without thinking, I snatched the key, shoved it blindly toward the front door lock just as Mark raised his hand to strike me across the face again, and jammed the key into the deadbolt.

Click.

I threw my weight against the door handle.

The heavy wood swung outward, and the cool, damp air of the early dawn rushed in to greet me like a physical embrace.

"Get back inside!" Mark snarled, his hand grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking me backward with enough force to tear several strands from my scalp.

Pain exploded across my skull, but the open door was right there—freedom was literally three feet away.

With a feral scream of my own, I threw all my remaining body weight forward, twisting out of my flannel shirt entirely. The fabric ripped down the seam, leaving me in a thin cotton tank top as I burst through the doorway and tumbled headfirst onto the gravel path of the front porch.

"Elena!" Mark roared, lunging through the doorway after me.

I hit the gravel hard, scraping my palms and knees raw, but I didn't stop. I scrambled up onto all fours and sprinted across the dew-soaked lawn toward the front gate, my breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps.

Behind me, I heard Mark sprinting down the porch steps, his heavy boots crunching furiously over the gravel.

"If you cross that property line, I swear to God I'll hunt you down before you reach the highway!" he screamed, his voice cracking with unhinged rage.

I didn't look back. I reached the wooden front gate, threw the latch open, and stumbled out onto the empty county road just as the first pale, gray fingers of dawn began to bleed over the horizon.

The highway was three miles away down this dark, winding rural road. No streetlights. No houses except for Arthur’s a quarter-mile back, and Arthur’s house was dark now, his porch light off, signaling he had gone back to sleep, unwilling or unable to risk another confrontation with the local contractor.

I started running—or rather, limping at a frantic, agonizing pace—keeping my hands clutched tightly over my lower stomach, praying, begging the baby inside me to hold on, to endure just a little longer.

Behind me, the sound of an engine revving to life shattered the quiet morning air.

Vroom.

The headlights of Mark’s black pickup truck flared to life in our driveway, cutting twin beams of blinding white light through the mist, instantly sweeping down the long driveway and locking directly onto my back as I ran down the middle of the road.