I was just grabbing a new lamp after duty for my living room at this little family-owned furniture place off Elm. Not even five minutes in, I spotted her—this tiny woman, maybe in her 70s, clutching the edge of a loveseat like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes were darting around like she was looking for someone. I walked over and asked if she was okay, and she said real soft, “He’s coming back. I just needed a minute.”

I figured maybe she was waiting on a relative, so I offered to sit with her. Then I noticed her hands shaking and the deep red imprint on her wrist, like someone had grabbed her too hard. When I asked about it, she flinched and just said, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

That’s when my gut kicked in. I showed her my badge, told her she was safe, and offered to call someone. She looked up at me with these tired eyes and whispered, “Please don’t let him find me before I leave.”

She wouldn’t say who “he” was, but she had a purse stuffed with papers—medical forms, a checkbook, and a bus schedule. No phone. No ID. The store clerk didn’t know her name, just that she came in often to sit and “rest.”

I offered to drive her to the station or somewhere safe, but she hesitated. Said she had “one more thing” to do before she left town. Then she handed me a crumpled note she’d been holding the whole time. I didn’t even get to read it before I heard the front door jingle again. And the way her face changed?

Let’s just say I knew right then—I wasn’t going anywhere. He entered the store with a slow, deliberate stride, like he owned the place. Tall, broad shoulders, maybe late 40s. He wore a baseball cap pulled low, and his eyes went straight to the old woman. She shrank back, gripping my wrist so tight it stung. Even though I didn’t know his name or why he was after her, I knew instinctively that he was dangerous