A little girl at Walmart grabbed my tattooed arm and whispered, “Daddy’s tryinng to hurt Mommy.”

“Don’t let him take me,” she said.

I followed her gaze.

A man stood at the end of the aisle, scanning. Early thirties. Clean clothes, but something off — the way his eyes moved, too sharp, too alert. Not worried.

Hunting.

“Addison!” he called, voice tight. “Get over here. Now.”