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
