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 school at three.

I used to leave early enough to pick her up, then complete my work from home. After transferring departments, that was no longer possible.

Ryan worked across town and rarely got home before six.

For two weeks, we survived on after-school care, favors from other parents, and what little patience I had left.

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.

Unfortunately, Melissa could be forty minutes late because she’d stopped for coffee while already running late.

There was also the babysitting incident.

Melissa had let Emma watch IT because, according to Melissa, Emma had promised she “wouldn’t get scared.”