The night my dad hit my mum again, I waited until he passed out. I knew the rhythm of his rage loud, fast, then silence. I packed my backpack with the essentials: my school folder, a hoodie that still smelled like her shampoo, and the challenge coin Aunt Hailey gave me when I was six.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t hesitate. I slipped out the back door, careful not to let it creak, and walked three blocks through Lincoln Park. I passed the zoo — quiet now, the animals asleep, the gates locked — and wondered if they ever felt trapped too. The streets were empty, lit by the soft glow of streetlamps and the occasional hum of a passing car.

When I reached the 21st Precinct, I didn’t knock. I just walked in. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the front desk sergeant looked up, startled, and I said the only thing I could: “I need Detective Upton. I’m her nephew.”