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 where is he now?”

“Exited through the north doors,” the guard said. “Got into a black SUV.”

The police broadcast the vehicle description.

Then they asked me the hardest question in a calm voice: “Ma’am, is your sister safe? And do you believe she knows what he’s doing?”

My throat closed. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to believe she could know. But continue reading …