While three grown men laughed and pinned him down, my eight-year-old son was nearly b:eat:en to d:ea:th in his grandfather’s driveway. Rushing to the emergency room, all I heard the doctors whispering were terrifying words like brain swelling and concussion…

man, Dad.”

I froze, my hand hovering over his seatbelt. I kissed the crown of his head. “I used to be, Toby. But now, I’m just your father.”

“Is there a difference?” he murmured sleepily.

“The difference,” I whispered, “is who I choose to unleash the danger upon.”

Chapter 3: The Sanctuary and the Tape

The safe house wasn’t on any municipal grid. Nestled continue reading …