At first, I almost smiled. My five-year-old daughter, Zoe, was pointing toward a locker in the women’s changing room and whispering that her father was inside it. It sounded impossible, even childish. My husband was supposed to be in Seattle for work. I had driven him to the airport myself.
But Zoe was not giggling. She was gripping my sleeve so tightly that her little fingers had gone pale.
“Mommy,” she whispered again, “Daddy is in there. We have to save him.”
I looked at the locker she meant. It was shut. There was no sound from inside. No banging. No voice. No sign that anyone was trapped.