On our way home from shopping, my eight-year-old daughter suddenly grabbed my hand. “Mom, quick, into the bathroom!” She pulled me into a stall and locked the door. “What’s going on?” I asked. She whispered, “Shh… don’t move. Look…” Then she peeked under the door. I followed her gaze—and froze in fear.

and quiet, and leaned toward Mila’s face. “Don’t make a sound,” I mouthed. “Stay with me.”

Outside, the boots shifted closer. The phone slid farther under the door, angling up.

I snapped a photo of the phone with my own camera—no flash—hands shaking so badly the image came out blurred. Then I opened my dialer and tapped 911, holding the phone close to continue reading …