Marcus’s answer didn’t come that fifteenth night in the parking lot. It came months later, in a quiet hospital room with a woman named Kate, whose bruises and terror looked too much like mine. She’d been attacked in a different garage. Same hospital. Same pattern. Same man. Marcus was there when the police brought her statement. He stood in the corner, fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes wet.

Afterward, he walked me outside. The air was cold; his voice was colder. “You asked why I kept coming back,” he said. “Because my daughter was attacked in a garage like this. I wasn’t there. I didn’t hear her. I didn’t save her. She didn’t make it.” His voice broke on the last word. “I can’t change what happened to her. But I can damn sure make sure I don’t miss it again.”