Carter finally stood up.
For one desperate instant, I thought instinct had broken through his anger.
I thought he was going to help me.
He did not.
“Don’t start with your dramatic bullshit.”
That sentence stayed with me because of how ordinary he made it sound.
I was bleeding while seven months pregnant, and he was treating the emergency as a performance designed to inconvenience him.
I reached toward my phone on the kitchen island.
“I need to call 911.”
Carter moved faster than I could.
His hand closed around the phone before mine reached it.
Then he threw it across the kitchen.
The phone struck the hardwood and the screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.
“You aren’t calling a damn soul,” he said.
That was the moment the night became something even worse than violence.
He was not only hurting me.
