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 hands were shaking as I walked back toward my own house. I moved through the neighbors’ yards, feeling like a criminal in my own life, ducking behind fences and trees. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs—thump-thump, thump-thump.

I slipped into my house through the back door, locked it silently behind me, and crept upstairs.

Lily’s bedroom was pristine. The bed was made with military precision. The desk was organized, pencils aligned by height. It was the room of a girl who was trying desperately to control her environment because she couldn’t control anything else.

If she was coming home, she wouldn’t expect me to be here.

I needed a vantage point. The closet was too risky; if she opened it, I’d be exposed immediately. My eyes fell to the bed.

With a groan of effort, I lowered myself onto the carpet and crawled under the bed frame.

It was a claustrophobic nightmare. The space was cramped, smelling of dust and old carpet fibers. The darkness pressed against my face. I pulled my phone out, silenced it, and checked the time.

8:15 a.m.

I lay there, my body rigid. Every creak of the house settling sounded like a gunshot.