At 2:27 a.m., my dad called unexpectedly, “Honey… I’m at the police station. Your sister-in-law be:at me with a baseball bat. But she told the police I attacked her because I’m mentally ill. Your brother just stood by and let it happen!” When I walked in, the officer turned pale and stammered, “Ma’am, I… I…”

None of it prepared me for a phone call at 2:27 in the morning.

My name is Natalie Brooks. I am a federal agent based in Columbus, Ohio.

The harsh vibration of my phone against the nightstand ripped me out of sleep. I reached for it, expecting an emergency dispatcher, a confidential informant, or one of my supervisors.

Instead, I heard my father.

His voice sounded fragile, terrified, and almost too weak to recognize.