My husband couldn’t stand that our intimidating biker neighbor walked our seven-year-old home from school. I trusted Travis completely—until Emma’s teacher called me at work and said, “Come here right now. It’s about the man who picks her up.” When I reached the principal’s office, Travis wasn’t alone.

I’d known Travis so long that I sometimes forgot how intimidating he looked to strangers.

He was thirty-six, six-foot-four, tattooed from wrists to shoulders, usually dressed in black, and played bass in a local band.

If Travis approached you in a dark parking lot, you might cross the street.

But I saw the man who fixed my first car for free and helped my mom after my dad died. He’d lived near my family for most of my life.

I trusted him.

My husband, Ryan, did not.

The problem began when my work schedule changed.

Our daughter, Emma, was seven and finished