I was halfway through a cheap beer and a terrible crime-show rerun when someone started pounding on my door. Not a polite knock. Not a neighbor needing sugar. This was panic—fast, uneven, desperate. At 2 a.m., that kind of knocking never meant good news.
I slid on my hoodie, covering the holster I’d left on the counter, and stepped toward the door. Then I heard the voice.
“Maddie—please! Open up!”
Savannah. My sister. The one I hadn’t seen in months. Mom insisted she was “too dramatic to deal with,” but right now, she was soaked, bruised, and trembling. Her little girl, Khloe—eight, in a wheelchair, gripping the armrests so tight her hands shook—was pressed against her side.
I opened the door, pulled them inside, and kicked it shut. Savannah shivered violently; her clothes were torn, her ribs already bruised. I’d seen enough domestic violence cases in the Military Police to know exactly what I was looking at.
A text from Mom blinked on my phone: Don’t save her. She’s a traitor. And don’t bother with the cripple.
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