The next morning, I went straight to the school office and asked for the security footage from the playground and the back gate. The principal hesitated, then showed me the cameras.
At first, it all seemed normal: kids running around, teachers walking. Then Noah came up to the back fence, smiling and waving.
“Come here,” I said.
On the other side of the fence, crouched down and out of sight, was a man in a work jacket and cap. He was leaning forward, talking. Noah was laughing as if it were perfectly normal. The man passed him something small over the fence.
My vision narrowed.
“He’s one of the contractors,” the director said. “He’s been repairing the exterior lights.”
But I recognized his face from the accident report that had forced me not to study too closely.
“It’s him,” I whispered. “The truck driver.”
I called 911.
The officers arrived quickly and found him near the maintenance shed. He didn’t run. He cooperated.
They took him to a small conference room. Without his cap, he looked smaller, thinner. His eyes were red.
“Ms. Elana,” he said hoarsely as I walked in.
A chill ran through me at the sound of my name.
Noah clung to me.
“He’s Ethan’s friend,” he whispered.
I sent Noah outside and confronted the man.
“Why did you talk to my son?” I demanded.
He shuddered.
