My ears began to ring. The sound was a high-pitched, mechanical whine that drowned out the soft jazz playing from the corner speakers and the crackle of the fireplace. I did not scream. I did not cry. I moved with a terrifying, primal silence that seemed to fracture the very air in the room. In a fraction of a second, I crossed the expanse of the Persian rug, shoved my chair backward with enough force that it crashed to the floor, and dropped to my knees beside my daughter. I pulled Lily’s trembling body into my chest. She was too shocked to weep, her small hands clutching the fabric of my sweater as she buried her face in my neck.

“Mr. Vance, this is Sergeant Miller,” the officer’s voice came through, sounding tense. “I’m calling to update Mrs. Peterson. We have a developing situation at the 414 Fullerton brownstone.”

My heart jumped. “Sergeant, what happened?”

“Megan Peterson refused to sign the summons and attempted to strike an officer when we returned to serve the formal protective order,” Sergeant Miller stated flatly. “She has been taken into physical custody and is currently being processed at Cook County Central Booking for assault on a peace officer and resisting arrest.”

Zoe let out a low, victorious whistle.

“And Mark Peterson?” I asked.

“Mr. Peterson became combative and attempted to physically obstruct the patrol vehicle,” Miller continued. “He has been detained for disorderly conduct and obstruction. He is currently demanding his one phone call to reach you, Mrs. Peterson. Do you wish to accept his call?”

I looked at Zoe, then at Arthur, and finally toward the hallway where my sweet, innocent daughter was sleeping, safe from the monsters who thought they ruled the world.

“No, Sergeant,” I said clearly. “Let him spend Thanksgiving night in a holding cell.”