My ten-year-old daughter said her tooth hurt, so I planned to take her to the dentist. Suddenly, my husband insisted on coming along. During the exam, the dentist kept staring at him. On the way out, he silently slipped something into my coat pocket. When I read it at home, my hands started shaking and I went straight to the police.

Our dentist, Dr. Harris, had treated Lily since kindergarten. He was probably in his fifties, kind, calm, and so familiar that my daughter usually relaxed as soon as she saw him.

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This time, he didn’t.

When the hygienist called her name, Lily looked at me first.

Then he looked at Daniel.

Then he looked back at me.

“I’ll go with you,” I said.

Daniel answered before I could move.