A little girl at Walmart grabbed my tattooed arm and whispered, “Daddy’s trying to hurt Mommy.”

“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.

“Addison!” he barked. “Get over here!”

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…

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