2My four-year-old son called me at work, crying: “Dad, Mom’s boyfriend hit me with a baseball bat.” I was 20 minutes away… so I called the only person who could get there faster.

"I'm two blocks out," Derek's voice cut through the cabin speakers. It was barely above a whisper now, low and icy cold.

"Derek, police are coming," I urged, weaving dangerously through two lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic near the freeway on-ramp. "Just get eyes on the house. Make sure he doesn't take Noah somewhere."

"I see the house," Derek said.

The line went dead quiet for three seconds. Then came the sound of Derek’s truck tires grinding against my gravel driveway. The heavy thud of his door slamming shut rattled over the microphone.

"Derek!" I yelled. "Talk to me!"

"Front door is unlocked," Derek said softly into his headset. "Lena's car isn't here. Just Travis's black Mustang."

Through the phone, I heard Derek’s heavy boots stepping onto the wooden front porch. Then came a strange, muffled noise—a low, pained whimpering coming from inside the house.

"Noah?" Derek called out, his voice instantly dropping its harsh edge, softening into the gentle tone he always used with my son. "Buddy? It's Uncle Derek."

A loud, aggressive crash echoed from the back hallway, followed by Travis’s rough, angry voice.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?!" Travis roared. "Get the fuck out before I put a hole in you!"

"Where is the boy, Travis?" Derek asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly flat.

"He's fine! He slipped on the stairs! Get out of here before—"

"If you lay a hand on that child again," Derek interrupted quietly, "you won't walk out of this house."

Then I heard it. The clear, sharp snap of a wooden baseball bat swinging through the air and impacting dry wall with a violent THUD.

"Derek!" I screamed into my steering wheel. "DEREK!"

Over the phone line came the sound of chaos. Heavy furniture sliding across hardwood floors. A sharp, gasping grunt. The sickening thud of fists hitting bone.