My neighbor kept insisting she spotted my daughter at home during school hours. To be sure, I pretended to leave for work—then hid beneath the bed. Minutes later, I heard more than one set of footsteps crossing the hallway.

I froze, my hand hovering over the car door handle. The wind seemed to stop.

“Skipping?” I laughed, a brittle, nervous sound. “No, Mrs. Greene. Lily loves school. She goes every single day. I drop her off at the bus stop myself.”

Mrs. Greene frowned, adjusting her spectacles. “That’s odd. I could have sworn I’ve seen her coming back to the house during the day. Around nine or so. And… well, sometimes she’s not alone. I’ve seen her with other children.”

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My heart dropped like a stone into deep water. “That can’t be right,” I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction. “You must be mistaken. Maybe it’s a neighbor’s kid who looks like her.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Greene murmured, though her eyes remained unconvinced. “Just thought you should know.”

I drove to work in a haze. The uneasiness in my chest was not a flutter; it was a heavy, cold weight. I tried to rationalize it. Mrs. Greene is getting older. Her eyesight is failing. But as the miles blurred beneath my tires, I couldn’t ignore the subtle shifts I had been dismissing for weeks.

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