“Please, mister,” she trembled against my denim. “Please pretend you’re my daddy. Don’t let him take me.”
I looked down at tangled brown hair and faint bruises on her thin arms. Then up: a man in his mid-thirties, sweating, flushed, scanning the shelves like a predator.
The girl—Addison—clung tighter. “That’s my daddy,” she whispered, “but he hurt Mommy. There was so much blood.”
I froze.
I crouched to her level. “How bad?” I asked, voice low.
“She’s not moving. Daddy said if I told anyone, I’d be next.”
He saw us. His gaze flicked between the child and me, calculating. I rose slowly — six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty pounds, scars and biker patches visible. No words needed.
“Addison, sweetie, come here,” he tried, his voice fake calm.
“No,” she gasped, pressing closer.Continue reading…
