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.

Do not confront him. Officers are on the way. Are you able to safely leave the restroom?”

“No,” I whispered. “He’s right outside the stall.”

Mila clung to my arm, shaking. I kissed the top of her head, trying to keep my own panic from spilling into her.

Then something worse happened.

The boots took a step back.

For a second, I thought he was leaving.

But continue reading …