That was the building. My heart didn’t stop, but my brain absolutely quit working for a second. I stood there, clutching that piece of paper, feeling the heat rising up my neck. I left Elias three years ago because he was suffocating, because he was possessive, and because I realized he had a way of making everything feel like it was my fault.

I hadn’t seen him since I moved to the other side of town.

“Is there a problem?” Arlene asked. She stood up, her hand hovering near her phone.

“I need to see his photo,” I said.

Arlene hesitated, then clicked a few more buttons. The printer groaned again. This time, the image came out clearer. It was a headshot. He had a beard now, heavy and dark. He had put on at least thirty pounds, enough to soften the hard line of his jaw. He looked different, but he didn’t look different to me. I knew those eyes. I had spent four years waking up next to those eyes.

I didn’t say another word to Arlene. I backed out of her office, my legs feeling like lead. I went straight to the police station. I didn’t call; I just walked in. I handed the detective the paper and the photo. I didn’t tell him who Elias was yet. I just wanted to see if the system saw what I saw.

The detective, a man with tired skin and a coffee-stained shirt, looked at the photo, then at the record. “Elias Vance,” he mumbled. He tapped his keyboard for ten minutes. “Clean record,” he said finally. “Not a single strike.”

“Look at his face,” I whispered.

He pulled the photo closer. “People change, ma’am.”

“He’s not a parent,” I said. My voice was shaking now, and I couldn’t stop it. “He doesn’t have a niece in that school. I need you to check the registration for the toddler group. Look for a Vance.”

The detective grunted, but he started typing again. His rhythm changed. He stopped and looked at me, his eyes sharp. “You’re right. No Vance in the toddler group. He’s not authorized to be there.”

I felt a rush of cold air move through the room. I reached into my bag and pulled out my own phone. I pulled up an old photo, one from the day we broke up. It was him, clean-shaven and thin, but the shape of the brow was identical. I laid it on the desk next to the school’s photo.

“That’s him,” I said. “That’s my ex.”

The detective leaned back. “Why would he be there?”

“Because he knows where I live,” I said. My voice was a flat, dull ache. “He knows where my daughter goes to school.”