Chapter 2 - The Only Person Faster

By the time I careened into the quiet suburban neighborhood, three police cruisers and an ambulance were already parked on the lawn, their red and blue lights painting the manicured houses in a chaotic strobe.

I threw my car into park before it even fully stopped, leaving the door wide open as I sprinted across the grass.

“Sir, you need to step back!” a young police officer shouted, holding up a hand.

“That’s my son in there!” I roared, shoving past him without a second thought.

I burst through the shattered side door. The house was a war zone. The kitchen table was overturned, framed photos were smashed against the drywall, and glass littered the hardwood floors. In the center of the living room, two paramedics were kneeling next to Travis. His face was a bloody, swollen mess, and he was unconscious, heavily restrained in zip-ties. Marcus had not held back.

But my eyes bypassed the wreckage and locked onto the corner of the room.

Marcus was sitting on the edge of the intact sofa, cradling Noah in his arms. My son looked so small, his little green dinosaur t-shirt stained with dirt and tears.

“Noah!” I gasped, falling to my knees in front of them.

Noah’s head snapped up. His face was pale, tear-streaked, and on his left cheekbone, a dark, sickening purple bruise was already beginning to bloom.

“Daddy!” he wailed, throwing his small arms around my neck with a force that nearly knocked me backward. I buried my face in his messy brown hair, inhaling the scent of him, sobbing into his shoulder. I held him so tight I feared I might break him, but I couldn't let go. I had to know he was real. I had to know he was safe.

“I’m here, buddy. I’m right here. I’ve got you. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again,” I whispered fiercely, kissing his forehead again and again.

I looked up at Marcus. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line.

“Thank you,” I mouthed to him, unable to find the breath to speak the words aloud.

Marcus nodded slowly. “He was trying to get into the closet when I breached the window. I didn't ask questions. I just put him to sleep.”

A female paramedic approached us gently, carrying a small medical kit. “Sir, we need to examine your son. We need to document his injuries for the police report.”

I nodded, gently pulling back from Noah, though I kept one of his hands tightly gripped in mine. “It’s okay, Noah. The nice lady is just going to look at your cheek.”

As the paramedic gently rolled up Noah’s sleeves, the breath left my lungs. The bruise on his face wasn't the only one. There were dark, finger-shaped contusions wrapped around his upper arms—the unmistakable mark of a grown man grabbing a child with violent force. There was a scrape on his elbow and a fading yellow bruise on his collarbone that looked several days old.

This wasn't the first time.

A blinding, white-hot rage ignited in my chest. If Travis hadn't already been unconscious on a stretcher, I would have killed him with my bare hands.

A senior detective walked into the living room, a notepad in hand. He looked at the paramedics wheeling Travis out the door, then turned his attention to me.

“Are you the father?” he asked.

“Yes. David Miller,” I said, standing up, my voice shaking with suppressed fury.

“Detective Reynolds,” he said, extending a hand. “We’ve got the suspect in custody. He’ll be transported to the hospital under police guard, and then directly to county jail for aggravated assault and child endangerment. But Mr. Miller, I have to ask… where is the mother?”

The question hit me like a physical blow.

Where was Jessica?

She was supposed to be working from home today. She had fought tooth and nail in divorce court to get primary custody, claiming she was the more present parent. Yet, her boyfriend had nearly beaten our son to death, and she was nowhere to be found.

“I don't know,” I said coldly.

Right on cue, tires screeched in the driveway. The front door flew open, and Jessica burst into the entryway. She was holding several shopping bags from a high-end boutique, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless.

She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the police officers, the broken glass, and finally, at me holding our bruised and terrified son.

“What is going on here?!” Jessica shrieked, dropping the shopping bags. “Where is Travis?!”