The radio crackled with the low hum of the end of another shift. It was 8:50 PM—Friday night. I was wrapping up paperwork, ready to grab some takeout and relieve Mrs. Henderson, my elderly neighbor and the closest thing I had to a guardian angel. She watched my five-year-old daughter, Lily, after school whenever I pulled long hours on patrol. My phone buzzed, and her picture flashed on the screen—gap-toothed grin, eyes bright with mischief. “Hey, Princess,” I said, pen in hand. “Daddy’s almost done.” But her voice wasn’t playful this time. It was thin, shaky. “Daddy… my tummy hurts....
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