Rain lashed against the dirty bathroom window.

I sat on the cold hexagonal tiles, clutching my left arm to my ribs.

Every small breath felt like inhaling broken glass.

In my right hand, I squeezed the cheap plastic of a burner phone.

My fingers shook so violently I could barely press the buttons.

Out in the living room, a heavy glass shattered against the drywall.

“Open this door, Lena!” Paul screamed.

His voice was thick with cheap whiskey and a desperate, wild rage.

“You think this hollow wood is going to keep me out?”

I stared at the ten-digit number I had kept memorized for three long years.

It belonged to Vincent Moretti.

My father had given it to me on his deathbed, telling me to call it only if my life depended on it.

I pressed the green call button and held the phone to my ear.

It rang once, the tone sharp and sterile.

“Speak,” a deep, quiet voice answered.

“Vincent,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against the cold enamel of the bathtub.

There was a brief, heavy pause on the other end of the line.

“Lena? What is happening?”

“Paul,” I choked out, a tear slipping down my nose. “He broke my arm. He is going to kill me.”

The silence that followed was freezing.

“Eight minutes,” Vincent said.

The line went dead.

I pulled my knees closer to my chest, trying not to scream as my left arm shifted.

Outside, the storm grew louder, thunder rattling the rusted pipes behind the wall.

“I know you have money hidden in here!” Paul shouted from the hallway.

He threw his shoulder against the bathroom door.

The frame groaned, and dust fell from the ceiling onto my bare knees.

“I need that cash, Lena! They are going to skin me alive!”

I wondered who “they” were, but the throbbing in my arm made it hard to think.

He had been acting like a madman for weeks, muttering about debts and men in dark overcoats.

Another heavy thud shook the door.

A thin crack appeared in the white painted wood near the brass lock.