The morning air stung Tina's face as she stepped out of the car, her breath fogging in the cold. Enzo had left for "work" an hour ago, his cologne still lingering in the house like a ghost she couldn't shake. She adjusted her scarf, tugging it high to cover the purple bloom on her cheek—a souvenir from last night's argument over Mia's bedtime. Her stomach churned as she crossed the police station parking lot, gravel crunching under her boots. The building squatted ahead, gray and uninviting, its windows reflecting a pale, washed-out sky.
Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee and cigarette smoke, thick enough to cling to her throat. Phones jangled, voices overlapped, and a fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, buzzing like a trapped fly. Tina's hands twisted together as she approached the desk, her palms slick with sweat despite the chill. A broad-shouldered officer looked up, his eyes tired but sharp under a mop of graying hair.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" His voice was gruff, like he'd said it a hundred times already today.
Tina licked her lips, forcing the words out. "I've got a friend. Her husband… he beats her up. Real bad."
The officer leaned back, crossing his arms. "She needs to come in herself and file a complaint. If she's got bruises, cuts—anything we can see—we'll go pick him up."
Her heart thudded, loud enough she swore he could hear it. "But what if he's got money? Can he just pay his way out? Stay free until a trial?"
He shrugged, scratching his jaw. "If he's got cash, yeah, he could post bail. Depends on the judge, the charges. Trial could be months off. That's how it works."
Tina's mouth went dry. Enzo wasn't just rich—he was the kingpin, the shadow pulling strings across the city. Cops, judges, lawyers—they'd bend for him, or they'd break. She pictured his smirk, the way he'd tilt his head and say, "You're mine, Tina," like it was a law of nature. Her scarf slipped, and she yanked it back up, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," she muttered, turning away before he could ask more.
Outside, the wind bit at her ears as she slumped against the car door. Her reflection stared back from the window—hollow eyes, tight lips, a woman drowning. The police were a trap, not a lifeline. Enzo would bribe his way out, threaten a few necks, and come home with blood on his knuckles. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath her coat. There was only one way out now—tonight.
Darkness cloaked the house, heavy and thick, broken only by the faint glow of a streetlight sneaking through the blinds. Tina lay rigid in bed, the mattress creaking under her slightest shift. Enzo's snores rumbled down the hall, steady as a train, but her ears strained for something else. Then it came—a soft meow, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the silence. Her breath caught. Ginny and Mike were here.
She slid out of bed, feet brushing the cold floor, her pulse a drumbeat in her throat. Every move was rehearsed, planned in stolen moments over weeks. The duffel waited under the bathroom sink—clothes, cash, Mia's stuffed bunny zipped inside. She crept down the hall, boards groaning faintly under her weight, and slipped into the bathroom. Her fingers trembled as she twisted the faucet—drip, drip, drip—a thin, steady sound to mask her escape. The tap gleamed in the dimness, each drop a tiny heartbeat echoing her own.
Back in the bedroom, she tugged on her jacket, the zipper's rasp loud as a gunshot in her ears. She winced, glancing at the doorway, but Enzo's snores didn't falter. The duffel's strap bit into her shoulder as she hoisted it, her other hand clutching a smaller bag—passports, tickets, a new life in a zip-lock sleeve. She took a step, and the small bag slipped, thumping softly against the floor. Her body locked, eyes wide, breath trapped in her chest. The snores paused—just for a heartbeat—then rolled on. She exhaled, shaky, and wiped her palms on her jeans.
Mia's room was next. She couldn't let her daughter discover what her father was. The door creaked as Tina nudged it open, and moonlight spilled across her daughter's bed. Mia slept curled up, her tiny chest rising and falling, lashes dark against her cheeks. Tina's throat tightened—she looked so peaceful, so untouched by the storm they lived in. She knelt, sliding her arms under Mia, lifting her with the blanket cocooned around her. Mia stirred, a sleepy mumble brushing Tina's ear. "Mommy?"
"Shh, sweetie," Tina whispered, lips grazing her forehead. "We're going somewhere safe."
Mia's head lolled against her shoulder, warm and heavy, trusting in a way that cracked Tina's heart open. She shifted her grip, the duffel bumping her hip, and edged into the hall. Each step was a tightrope walk—slow, deliberate, her socks muffling the sound. The living room stretched ahead, the front door a beacon in the gloom. Her fingers twitched, itching to run, but she forced herself to move like molasses, quiet as a shadow.
Another meow—softer, closer—hummed through the cracked window. Mike was out there, engine idling, Ginny watching the house like a hawk. They'd planned it all: the cat call signal, the car ready to peel out, the tickets to a city Enzo couldn't reach. Tina's chest swelled—fear, yes, but something fiercer too. Hope. She was inches from the door, her hand hovering over the knob, when the floorboard squeaked, sharp and traitor-loud.
She froze, Mia's weight anchoring her, her ears straining. The snores had stopped. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, and then—a rustle. A shadow loomed behind her, fast and brutal. Fingers sank into her hair, yanking her back with a force that ripped a gasp from her lungs. Pain seared her scalp as she was flung across the room, crashing onto the couch. Mia tumbled from her arms, but she landed safely still sleeping.
Enzo stood over her, his silhouette a nightmare against the faint light. His breath heaved, eyes glinting with a rage she knew too well. "You stupid little—" He didn't finish, his hand already swinging, but Tina rolled, the blow grazing her shoulder instead of her face.