My son reached out to me with a distressed voice. “Dad, I’m at the police station. My stepdad hit me and made a false accusation. The officers are siding with him, not me.”
“Which officer is in charge?”
“It’s Sergeant Miller.”
“Hold on—I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I chose not to consult with a lawyer. Instead, I walked into the precinct wearing my uniform. Upon seeing me, the sergeant visibly panicked.
“Captain, I wasn’t aware you’d arrive.”
“I need fifteen minutes alone with his stepfather.”
Miller trembled. “He’s completely at your disposition, all night.”
Lucius David had witnessed the depths of human cruelty during his twenty-three years in the police force. His previous combat experience in Afghanistan had readied him for violence. But no preparation could brace a man for the bureaucratic mayhem involved in a divorce—especially one with an ex-wife who had remarried a charismatic man with a penchant for alcohol avoidance, which Lucius considered a troubling sign.
Standing in his office, illuminated by the afternoon sunlight streaming through the blinds, Lucius at forty-six exuded confidence earned through countless trials. His uniform was spotless, posture impeccably aligned, yet his coal-gray eyes reserved warmth for only three individuals: his son Blake, his dedicated partner of fifteen years, and his departed mother.
“Captain David?” Officer Sandy Ali knocked gently at the open door. “The mayor’s office has been inquiring again about the community outreach initiative.”
“Inform them I’ll present the proposal by Friday.” Lucius remained focused on the stack of incident reports. He noticed a spike in gang activity in the East District while grappling with the fact that two of his best detectives were on paternity leave. “Anything else?”
“Your ex-wife called. She mentioned something about Blake’s football match on Saturday.” The tension in her voice was unmistakable.
Lucius’s jaw tightened slightly. Carmela had been tense ever since marrying Guermo Edwards two years prior; a successful contractor in Lucius’s view—far too fast-tracked and profitable to be entirely clean.
“I’ll take care of it.” He dismissed Ali with a wave and noticed three missed calls from Carmela, all in the last hour.
Before he could return the call, his phone rang again, displaying Blake’s number.
“Hey, buddy. Are you alright?” Lucius felt a momentary sense of relief hearing his son’s voice, though it faded quickly.
“Dad… I’m fine. Can we talk? Not over the phone.”
Blake, at sixteen, a sophomore with height from his father and dark eyes from his mother, had recently become distant. Initially, Lucius attributed it to the typical teenage chaos, including first relationships. But the tone in Blake’s voice stirred an instinct that had kept Lucius alive through wartime.
“I can swing by in twenty. Same place?”
“No.” Blake’s voice lowered. “Can you meet me at Uncle Byron’s garage instead? I need to avoid home.”
Uncle Byron—Lucius’s younger brother, the only mechanic capable of reviving a rusted ’67 Mustang. Blake had spent numerous afternoons there, learning auto repair since the divorce.
“On my way.” Lucius donned his jacket and departed, pausing only to inform his second-in-command, Lieutenant Arnaldo Caldwell, he’d be gone for an hour. Caldwell, seasoned in the force, simply nodded, accustomed to Lucius’s intense focus.
The garage occupied a neglected industrial zone. Byron had purchased it for a pittance fifteen years ago, transforming it into a haven for vintage cars and lost causes. Upon arriving, Lucius found Blake slumped on the hood of a Chevelle, absorbed in his phone.
“Blake?”
His son glanced up, revealing a purple bruise beneath his left eye, camouflaged by his hair.
“Please don’t panic.” Blake slid off the hood, hands uplifted. “It’s not as severe as it seems.”
Lucius’s training activated before his anger surfaced. He approached steadily, turning Blake’s face towards the light. The bruise appeared fresh, maybe three or four hours old, with faint fingerprints on Blake’s upper arm barely concealed by his sleeve.
“Oh, Dad…”
“Who harmed you, Blake?”
Blake’s eyes welled with unshed tears, proud enough to hold them back. “Memo. We argued about the game on Saturday. I talked back, and he pushed me—threw me against the wall. Claimed I was disrespectful, stating that Mom allows me to run wild, that someone needed to instill discipline.” Blake’s voice faltered. “I shoved him back, just once. And he lost control.”
Lucius felt his body numb with fury. This was the eerie calm before chaos ensued—the clarity before the storm.
“Where’s your mother?”
“At her sister’s. She hasn’t been informed yet. Memo warned that if I spoke out, I wouldn’t see you again—he claimed to have contacts in family court, stated he could prove you were an unfit parent for being absent.”
Lucius enveloped Blake in his arms, feeling his son tremble against him.
“Did you retaliate?”
“No. I simply left, grabbed my bike, and came here.”
Blake pulled back, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad. I shouldn’t have provoked him. I know Mom is happy with him, and I don’t want to disrupt that.”
“Stop.” Lucius held Blake’s shoulders, ensuring his son met his gaze. “You are not to blame. A grown man assaulted you—that’s unacceptable.”
“But Mom—”
“I’ll speak with your mother. Right now, I require you to follow my instructions exactly. We’re heading to the hospital for an examination. Then, we’ll document everything.”
Blake nodded, trust gleaming in his eyes—faith that Dad would resolve it, that justice would prevail. It was a heavy burden Lucius had borne since Blake’s birth, and would continue until his last breath.
He withstood the urge to tell his son that Guermo Edwards had just made a grave error. Lucius upheld many principles—codes that guided his actions—but one rule outshined them all: he would never tolerate anyone laying a finger on his son.
Carmela Edwards—formerly Carmela David—stared into the bathroom mirror of her sister’s home. She attempted to convince herself that the ache in her chest resulted merely from anxiety over Blake’s football game. She had felt on edge since the breakfast quarrel between Blake and Memo.
“Are you alright in there?” Elena Smith, her sister, called through the door.
“Yes, just give me a moment.” Carmela splashed cold water on her face.
At forty-three, Carmela maintained a graceful appearance—thanks to yoga, quality skincare, and the comfortable lifestyle provided by Guermo. She married him for being everything Lucius was not: present, attentive, and financially stable, free from fears of nightly police callouts. No more waking at 3:00 AM wondering if that day would mark her transition into widowhood.
Nonetheless, Guermo’s demeanor had shifted recently—shorter temper, increased drinking, and longer work hours. His rapport with Blake had devolved from distant to hostile over the preceding six months.
Her phone buzzed. Lucius. She hesitated, but guilt pushed her to answer.
“Carmela, where are you?”
“At Elena’s. What’s happened?” She recognized the barely contained anger in his tone.
“When did you last see Blake?”
Her heart froze. “This morning around 7:30. Why, Lucius? What’s wrong?”
“Your husband did this.” The way he spat the word