SUNLIGHT FILTERED IN through the windows. Birds chirped outside. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Not the annoying yap of Rosalind’s rat.
Sara opened her eyes. Her hand throbbed. Her head throbbed. She peeled back the bandage on her hand and winced at the raw redness. At the smell.
She fumbled for her cell phone on the coffee table. Noon, Saturday. Jordan would be home tomorrow. She called him to leave him a message.
A woman’s voice answered. A cold stone dropped into Sara’s gut.
“Uh, is Jordan there?” Sara asked.
“Oh, honey, you have the wrong number,” the woman said.
“This isn’t 303-555-2625?”
“Yes, but there’s no Jordan here. This is a battered women’s shelter.” The woman paused. “Say, do you need help? Are you pretending? I heard about a woman who called 9-1-1 to order a
