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.

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.

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“Is Lily skipping school again?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; it was gentle, laced with a genuine confusion that made my stomach lurch.

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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