The first afternoon Travis picked Emma up, she came through the front door like she had just returned from an expedition.
"Mom!"
I looked up from my laptop.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Travis knows how motorcycles work!"
Travis stood behind her.
"I regret explaining that."
Emma ignored him.
"And he said crows remember people's faces!"
"Apparently they do."
"And he can whistle with two fingers!"
Travis raised both hands.
"She has been trying for twenty minutes."
Emma demonstrated.
It sounded like someone stepping on a squeaky toy.
I laughed.
Ryan didn't.
That evening, when we were eating dinner, Ryan barely touched his food.
Finally he said:
"I don't like this."
I looked at him.
"Don't like what?"
"Her walking home with him."
"Why?"
"Because I don't trust him."
"Based on what?"
Ryan shrugged.
"Look at him."
I put down my fork.
"That's your evidence?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, actually, I don't."
"He looks like trouble."
"Ryan, you've known him for years."
"Knowing someone doesn't mean trusting them."
I sighed.
"He's never done anything to Emma."
"Yet."
That one word stayed with me.
"Yet?"
Ryan looked away.
"Forget it."
I did.
At least for the moment.
For the next three weeks, everything went perfectly.
Travis walked Emma home.
He waited until I got home.
He never entered the house unless invited.
He never kept secrets.
He never took Emma anywhere without telling me.
And every afternoon, Emma came home smiling.
She told us stories.
She told us what Travis taught her.
She told us about music.
About birds.
About motorcycle engines.
About the names of different tools.
She even announced one night that Travis had officially declared her "the worst whistler in the neighborhood."
Ryan laughed despite himself.
For a moment, I thought his suspicion was fading.
I was wrong.