She whispered, “Dad, help,” and the line cut out. I raced at 100 miles per hour to reach her at her in-laws’ mansion.

My phone lit up at 9:17 p.m. “Dad?” Emily’s voice was barely a whisper. It didn’t sound like her. My daughter had always been steady, warm, the one who smoothed over arguments, comforted friends, and kept the family anchored. But now, there was fear, panic, and something I couldn’t place in her tone. “Dad… please help—” Then the line went dead. No background noise. No screaming. Just silence. I didn’t think. I grabbed my keys, jumped into my old pickup, and drove faster than I had in years. Tires squealed…
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