My daughter whispered, “Dad, help,” and the line went d.e.a.d. I drove at 100 mph to her in-laws’ mansion. My son-in-law blocked the porch, gripping a baseball bat, sneering, “This is a private family matter. Your daughter needed discipline.”

At the gates of Blackwood Heights, I didn’t stop. I swerved around the barrier, tearing up the manicured grass, and roared toward their mansion. I parked directly on the front lawn, crushing expensive flowers beneath my tires.

Daniel was waiting.

He stood on the porch in spotless designer clothes, gripping a Louisville Slugger. His knees shook, though he tried to look brave.

“Go home, Walter!” he shouted. “This is family business. Emily is unwell. She needs discipline.”

The word made my jaw tighten.

“Move,” I said calmly.

He screamed and swung.

It was clumsy. Predictable.

I stepped inside the swing and drove my fist into his solar plexus. The air fled his lungs. He folded and collapsed, gasping, the bat clattering away.

I stepped over him and kicked in the door.

Upstairs came the sound of scissors. Snip. Snip. Followed by my daughter’s sob.

The bedroom door was open.

Emily knelt on the floor, her long hair scattered in jagged clumps across a Persian rug. Margaret stood over her, knee pressed into her back, scissors flashing.

“This is what happens when you disobey,” she snarled. “Maybe now you’ll learn your place.”

“Get off her,” I said.

She turned, shocked.