My heart pounded as I asked to speak to her. When I heard her voice, she just whispered, “Can you come get me?”

No tears. No panic. Just flat. Empty. I left work without locking my office door. The twenty-minute drive felt like hours.

At school, she stood with her backpack on and hoodie up. In July. In Florida. I hugged her tight. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?” I asked. She only said, “Can we just go home?”

Halfway down the highway, she finally spoke: “Please don’t make me go back there.”

At home, she shut herself in her room. I tried calling her dad. No answer. His wife, Tasha—nothing. The next morning, I texted again: She’s here. Safe. What happened?

He responded: What are you talking about?

I called. “She left your house three days ago,” I said. “You texted