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.

still.

Then, through the gap under the door, I saw something slide into view next to the phone—thin and metallic.

A flat tool.

A lock pick.

My blood ran cold. This wasn’t a confused person. This wasn’t a prank.

This was someone who came prepared.

The tool scraped at the latch. The stall door shuddered slightly.

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the urge to continue reading …