My hand rests protectively over my flat belly. My child is the only thing that feels solid in this house of lies and blood. I keep my expression carefully blank a mix of hollow depression and lingering fear.

The silence of the room is cloying, smelling of the expensive jasmine perfume I sprayed yesterday and the faint, dusty scent of the old, leather-bound books on the nightstand. I don't move when I hear the heavy, rhythmic footsteps in the hallway. I don't move when the lock turns with that ...