My daughter called me crying at 2:47 a.m.: “Dad… I’m in the hospital. Uncle Ryan pushed me into the water, but he’s saying I slipped. The police believe him.” When I arrived…

I was already standing, with the keys in my hand.

Lily was spending the weekend at her uncle Ryan’s lake house in Gravenhurst, two hours north of Ottawa. My ex-wife, Claire, insisted it would be good for her to strengthen ties with the family.

I had agreed, reluctantly. Something about Ryan had always unsettled me, but I told myself that perhaps I was being too cautious.

Now that word tasted bitter to me.

Cautious.

Eight years ago, being cautious had meant surviving.

“Which hospital are you in?” I asked.

—South Muskoka Memorial.

—Stay by the nurse’s station—I told him. —Don’t go. I’m coming over.

After hanging up, I sat in my truck for exactly thirty seconds.

Then, the part of me that I had buried years ago awoke.

I made two calls.

The first was to my former commanding officer of a special operations unit that I left behind when I chose a quieter life as a high school civics teacher.