When I first noticed the strange red markings on my daughter’s back at my ex-husband’s house, I assumed it was a prank. But the moment I lifted her hoodie, my blood ran cold.

At first glance, I didn’t scream. I didn’t even gasp. I just stared—my nails digging into my palm so hard I felt the sting before realizing I was clenching my fist. Cassie, my ex-husband’s girlfriend, was laughing.

“It’s just a few markings,” she said, as if she were describing smudged paint, not what looked like tattoo ink embedded in my nine-year-old’s skin.

I smiled—cold, deliberate. “Thank you,” I said softly. “You just helped me more than you know.”

Earlier that afternoon, I had gone to pick up Emma from her father’s house in Tacoma, Washington.

It was supposed to be a routine Sunday exchange. Mark had texted that Emma was “in her room, being shy.” I didn’t think much of it—divorced parents get used to small mysteries.

But when I arrived, something felt off. Cassie opened the door wearing yoga pants and a smirk—the kind that always made me wonder what she thought she’d won.

I asked for Emma.

“She doesn’t want to come out,” Cassie shrugged.

When Emma finally appeared, she had her hoodie zipped up to her neck despite the summer heat. Her eyes flickered between us—uncertain, frightened. I bent to hug her, but she flinched—barely, but enough to make my heart drop.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “take off your hoodie. It’s too warm.”

She shook her head hard.

Cassie chuckled, walked over, and before I could stop her, tugged the hoodie up and off.

The air left the room.

Three large, intricate symbols ran down my daughter’s spine. Black, green, and red ink glistened beneath plastic wrap crudely taped over raw skin. I couldn’t speak.

“She said she wanted to be tough,” Cassie said breezily. “Like in the movies. You know, with the warriors or something.”

I turned to Mark, who was suddenly very interested in the floor.

My voice came out level, calmer than I felt. “Who did this?”

Cassie lifted one shoulder. “A friend of mine. He’s an apprentice—totally safe. We just thought it would be, you know, empowering.”

Empowering.

I looked at Emma, her small frame trembling under the weight of something she didn’t understand. That was the moment I knew this wasn’t just bad judgment. Something deeper was happening—something I had to uncover before it went too far.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those colors—black, green, red—cutting down my daughter’s back like a warning I couldn’t yet read.