Eight months pregnant, I was moving slowly, as if each step carried the weight of two lives. My name is Natalie Foster, and that afternoon, in the apartment in Chicago, I forgot to put salt in the soup. It was a small mistake, but with Connor, negligence was paid for dearly.

She remembered a phone number she had not dialed in years. Brianna Lewis, her high school friend, the one Connor never met because Natalie kept that part of her life hidden.

She opened the drawer under the tablecloth and found her wallet. Her identification was there. The small notebook was there too, filled with dates, words, threats written in neat handwriting she barely recognized as her own. Her phone buzzed.

“Clean this up before I get back,” Connor had written.

Natalie read the message without emotion. Then she dialed Brianna’s number.

“Nat?” Brianna answered, her voice instantly alert.

“I need to leave tonight,” Natalie said quietly. “I am pregnant. I am not safe.”

There was no hesitation.

“I am coming,” Brianna replied. “I am bringing Paul. Stay where you are.”

Natalie hung up as she heard Connor’s footsteps approaching. She slipped the phone into her bra and took a deep breath.

Connor pushed the bathroom door open.

“Who were you talking to?” he demanded.

“My aunt,” Natalie lied, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “She worries.”

He studied her for a moment, then shrugged and turned away, the television volume rising seconds later.