“Nebraska. Three states away. Tyler made me move here six months ago. Promised a better life. But…” she couldn’t finish.
Tyler’s face went pale as the officer checked his warrants. Domestic violence in Missouri, failure to appear in Kansas. He was cuffed and read his rights.
The officer stayed with her, gathered her statement, contacted a local domestic violence shelter.
I was giving my own statement when Brandi walked up. “Mr. Morrison, I need to thank you. You saved my life.”
“Sweetheart, I just filled your tank.”
“No. You asked if I felt safe. Nobody has asked in six months. Nobody cared.”
She rolled up her sleeves. Bruises, handprints, fingerprints. “He hit me because I smiled at a cashier.”
“How long has this been going on?” “Since we moved. Started small—control over clothes, money, friends. Then it turned physical. Never more than three dollars for gas. Today I finally tried to leave.”
“And then an old biker filled your tank, and everything changed.”
She cried again. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”
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