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.
