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.

9:00 a.m. Nothing. My legs were beginning to go numb. Doubt began to gnaw at me. I’m paranoid, I thought. I’m a crazy mother spying on her innocent daughter. Mrs. Greene is just senile.

9:20 a.m.

CLICK.

The sound of the front lock turning echoed through the silent house.

My breath hitched. My entire body froze, muscles locking up.

The door opened.

Footsteps.

But it wasn’t the heavy, solitary stomp of a teenager throwing down a bag. It was a soft, shuffling sound. And it wasn’t one person.

There were multiple sets of feet. Light, hurried, whispery footsteps. Like mice scurrying into a hole to escape a cat.

I held my breath until my lungs burned.

“Shh, be quiet,” a voice whispered.

It was Lily.

She was home. She had lied to my face.

And she wasn’t alone.