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My son is seven years old. He taught himself to eat without making a sound.
For ten years I lived in my husband's house like a country whose language I never learned. I ground the coffee before he woke up, because the grinder was loud and Mark hated loud. I set his mug two inches left of the saucer. I taught my little boy to cross the front hall on his toes.
The morning I finally packed a bag, I hid it behind the canned tomatoes and left my wedding ring on the nightstand.
I never got to use it.
By noon, Leo was gone. Taken out of his own schoolyard by a man who knew exactly what to say to him.
And when I called my husband, screaming, he went very quiet.
Because he knew who had my child. He'd known for five months.
The man I married is not the man I've been afraid of. He is something older and worse, and the past he buried ten years ago has come back with a scar on its face and my son in its hands.
They want what Mark stole. They gave him until midnight.
I will get my boy back. I don't care what it costs, who it buries, or which of us walks out of that dark alive.
But when it's over, I am not walking back into that house as the woman who tiptoed.
I'm walking back in with lawyers.
A heart-in-your-throat domestic suspense novel about coercive control, a mother's rage, and the difference between forgiving a man and going back to him. For readers who want a heroine who does not break.
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Take 20% off your first order
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