At 2:27 a.m., my dad called from the police station. #4

Not one.

Not two.

There were several.

Some were fading yellow at the edges, meaning they had been there for days. Others were fresh, deep, and angry-looking.

And beneath them were thin red marks that looked unmistakably like something had been tied around his wrists.

“Dad…”

He quickly pulled his sleeve down.

“Please,” he whispered. “Not here.”