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.

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But I saw the man who fixed my first car for free and helped my mom after my dad died.…