My husband made dinner that night, and seconds after my son and I finished eating, we collapsed. I forced myself to lie still as if unconscious, and that’s when I heard him whisper on the phone, “It’s done. They’ll both be gone soon.”

“They are,” Marcus replied.

But his voice had an edge.

He was lying.

I grabbed Caleb and pulled him into the bathroom. I locked the door with trembling fingers just as the 911 call finally connected.

The dispatcher’s voice came through, calm and steady.

“Officers are outside. Stay in the bathroom until they announce it’s safe.”

The next minutes stretched into torture.

Then came the pounding.

“Police. Open the door.”

Caleb shook against me.

“Mom,” he whispered. “Are we going to be okay?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know if Marcus had planned to kill us, though every part of me already knew the answer.

But I had to give my son something to hold onto.

“Stay quiet,” I whispered. “We’re safe here.”

Footsteps thundered through the house. Voices rose. Commands. Questions. Doors opening.

Then Marcus’s voice cut through the noise.

“We have the wife’s 911 call. She’s alive.”

He sounded frustrated.

Not relieved.

Not horrified.

Frustrated.

A moment later, keys rattled. The bathroom door opened, and an officer stepped inside. He knelt in front of me, his expression sharp but gentle.

“Ma’am, are you okay? We’re here. You’re safe now.”

I couldn’t answer at first. Tears poured down my face.

“Where’s your husband?” he asked.