A child stumbled inside.
She couldn’t have been more than seven years old.
Her jacket hung crooked on her small shoulders, completely drenched. Mud streaked her socks, her hair clung to her face, and her chest heaved as if she’d been running for miles instead of just a few blocks. For a moment, no one moved. Then she let out a cry that sliced through the quiet like glass breaking.
“Please,” she sobbed, voice cracking, “please stop my dad!”
Every officer in the room froze.
Carter was the first to react. He pushed his chair back and knelt in front of her, keeping his voice low, steady — the way you do when you know panic is already winning.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re safe here. What’s your name?”
The girl wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket, smearing rain and tears together. “Lily,” she whispered.
“What’s happening at home, Lily?”
