My husband hated 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.
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I’d known Travis for so long that I sometimes forgot what he looked like to people who didn’t know him.
He was thirty-six, six-foot-four, tattooed from wrists to shoulders, usually dressed in black, and played bass in a local band.
If you saw Travis walking toward you in a dark parking lot, you might cross the street.
I sometimes forgot what he looked like
But I saw the guy who fixed my first car for free and showed up to help 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 started when my work schedule changed.
I trusted him.
Our daughter, Emma, was seven and got out of school at three.
I used to leave work early enough to get her, then finish whatever I needed from home. After I moved to a different department, that stopped being possible.
Ryan worked across town and usually didn’t get home until after six.
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For about two weeks, we pieced things together with after-school care, favors from other parents, and me burning through every ounce of patience I had.
The problem started when my work schedule changed.
One night, Ryan said, “Maybe Melissa can handle it?”
I stared at him. He stared back.
Then we both said, “No.”
Emma adored Ryan’s sister, Melissa.
Melissa was also the kind of person who could be forty minutes late because she stopped for coffee on the way to somewhere she was already late to.
