But then stopped.

“You’re… you’re scarier than him,” she whispered, like she was realizing something important.
“Maybe you could stop him.”

She opened the door fully. Barefoot. Pajamas torn. Bruises in the shape of adult fingers around her tiny arms. A split lip still bleeding.

Big Mike had seen combat in Afghanistan. Had seen terrible things. But nothing had ever made his blood run as cold as what he saw in this child’s eyes — the look of someone who’d given up on adults helping her.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Emma.” She stepped out, limping.
“I ran away. Three miles. My feet hurt.”

“Where’s your mama?”

“Working. She’s a nurse. Night shifts.” Emma started crying harder.
“She doesn’t know. He’s careful. He’s smart. Everyone