“Please lock the door!”
The front doors of the police station slammed open.
A boy—maybe eight years old—stumbled inside. Barefoot. Trembling. Bruises wrapped around his arms, and one side of his face was badly swollen.
I was still at my desk, finishing paperwork.
Before I could reach him, a man rushed through the entrance.
“Evan! Get back here!”
The boy screamed and ducked behind my chair.
I stepped between them.
“Sir, stay right there.”
The man raised both hands.
“I’m his father. He ran away.”
Behind me, Evan whispered, “He’s lying.”
The man’s expression shifted instantly.
“Don’t listen to him. He gets confused.”
I glanced down at the marks on Evan’s wrists.
Something about them made my stomach tighten.
“Did you do this to him?”
“Of course not.”
