“Damn you, Daisy,” I fume for the umpteenth time, picturing her brown eyes pleading for liberation behind a chain link gate at the rescue kennel, “you could have chased that rabbit’s trail clear to the next county, but now you’ve cost us both our freedom.” Jeb from the pub found the stupid beagle dragging an unmanned leash and baying beside the canal like her heart was broken, then noticed something familiar about the balloon of fabric barely visible below the surface of the water. The air trapped by Randall’s jacket as he fell into the canal prevented his body from sinking to the muddy bottom as it should have done, so it was quick work for the police to fish the hateful ogre out and discover the hole that marked my bullet’s path through his heart. When the officers at the door saw my black eye and split lip, “Ma’am, we’re sorry to tell you that your husband was found…” quickly became, “Were you having any sort of marital issues?” It seems the sympathy and outrage law enforcement officials normally feel on behalf of domestic violence victims vanishes like the London fog when a victim’s abuser turns up dead. I thought I’d found my freedom when Randall toppled into that watery grave, but in reality I’ve only traded one prison for another; the cell of threats, insults, and blows in which I paced for more than fifteen years has been replaced for the next twenty-five by cold concrete walls and unyielding iron bars.