I thought about the last week. Had I seen anything? I remembered the man by the bus loop on Tuesday. Just a guy in a gray hoodie. He had his phone out, pointed toward the kids. I assumed he was a parent, maybe recording his own kid getting off the bus. But he wasn’t waving. He wasn’t smiling. He was just standing there, as still as a statue, watching the swarm of children with a look that I couldn’t quite place.

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept the note in the zip pocket of my purse, right next to my keys. I checked on Hannah three times. Each time I walked into her room, I expected to see a shadow. I expected to see something wrong. But she was just breathing, deep and steady, her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chin.

Friday morning felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. I got to the school 40 minutes early. I parked my car, an old sedan, at the very end of the line so I could see the gate. I didn’t get out. I just kept my eyes glued to the fence near the bus terminal.

At 2:45, the bell rang. The kids started spilling out.

There he was.

He was standing in the exact same spot. Gray hoodie. Dark jeans. He had his phone up, recording. He wasn’t looking at the kids like a father looks at a daughter. He was scanning. He was looking for someone.

I saw him lock eyes with a little girl in a yellow jacket, and he actually lowered the phone. He didn’t approach her. He just signaled with a quick nod, like he was checking off a list.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely grip the steering wheel. I saw Hannah coming out with her class. I scrambled out of the car. I didn’t run, but I walked faster than I ever have in my life. I grabbed her hand, and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t yell. I didn’t confront him. I just got her into the backseat, buckled her in, and drove.

I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. He was still standing there. He didn’t follow us. He just stood there, watching the other parents, his phone held tight against his side.

I called the school office from the driveway. I wanted to scream, but I remembered the note. “Don’t say anything out loud.” I told the secretary I had a concern about a visitor. She told me the counselor would talk to me on Monday.

I spent the weekend in a fog. Every knock at the door, every car passing the house, made me jump. I felt like I was losing my mind, but I was also terrified that if I spoke, I would make it worse.

Then Monday afternoon at 2:15, the phone rang. The caller ID said Lincoln Elementary.