The safe house was supposed to keep her secure. No visitors. No contact, except the monitored phone line. No windows that could be opened without alarms. She wasn’t supposed to feel like a prisoner, but she did. Her friends had called, their voices tinny through the receiver. “Jordan, we’re worried about you. You don’t sound right.” “I’m fine,” she always said. But was she? The quiet was eating her alive, leaving her trapped with nothing but the sound of her own thoughts. And now, she wasn’t even sure the quiet was hers anymore. A whistle floated from the kitchen. Low. Lazy. Too familiar. Jordan’s stomach lurched. He used to whistle like that when he paced the hallways after drinking — before the blows came. She’d grown up fearing that sound. Her throat tightened.