My triplets refused to blow out their birthday candles until I set a fourth place at the table.

We spent Saturday morning watching the Oakridge community calendar like hawks.

We didn't go back to the school. We didn't drive near the iron gates of Highland Manor. We knew that Victor Sterling would have his private security guards on high alert after my outburst at the gate.

Instead, I scoured the social media feeds of Oakridge parents, looking for weekend activities.

At 11:00 AM, I found it: an Instagram post from the Oakridge Public Library announcing a Saturday afternoon children's robotics workshop. Tagged in the comments by another parent was an RSVP from Claire Sterling.

"She won't take Maya out in public after yesterday," Adam argued as we sat at our kitchen table, while my mother watched the triplets in the living room.

"She will," I countered. "Claire Sterling is obsessed with appearances. If she pulls Maya out of her scheduled weekend activities, the other mothers will whisper that something is wrong. Women like Claire live and die by routine."

"And how are you going to get close to her?"

I held up a small, sterile plastic specimen bag from our medicine cabinet, along with a pair of stainless-steel tweezers.

"I’m going alone," I said. "A father hanging around a children’s library looks suspicious. A mother reading a book in the corner doesn't."

At 1:30 PM, I walked through the heavy wooden doors of the Oakridge Public Library. The children’s wing was bright, filled with low round tables, colorful beanbag chairs, and shelves of picture books. A dozen seven- and eight-year-olds sat around a large craft table assembling small solar-powered plastic cars.

And there she was.

Maya sat at the far end of the craft table, wearing a yellow sundress. Her hair was tied back with a blue velvet ribbon. Across the room, sitting in an armchair by the magazine rack, was Claire Sterling. Claire was pretending to read an architectural journal, but her knuckles were white against the glossy pages, and her eyes darted toward the library entrance every time the door chime sounded.

My heart hammered in my throat like a trapped bird. I pulled my wide-brimmed sun hat lower over my brow, slipped off my sunglasses, and sat at a study carrel ten feet behind Maya.

For forty minutes, I watched my daughter.

I watched the way she bit her lower lip when she was concentrating on fitting a plastic gear onto an axle—the exact same habit Caleb had when building Lego sets. I watched the way she tucked a stray curl behind her left ear with her pinky finger—a nervous tic I had seen Nora perform a thousand times.

She was vibrant. She was polite. When the boy beside her dropped his screwdriver, she picked it up and smiled, saying, "Here you go, Leo."

Her voice was sweet, slightly breathless, identical to Tess’s.

At 2:15 PM, the instructor announced a five-minute juice break. The children scrambled out of their chairs toward the refreshment cart by the water fountain.

Maya stood up, smoothing down her yellow sundress. As she passed a tall wooden book display, her blue velvet hair ribbon caught on a metal display hook.

With a small yelp, the ribbon tore free, pulling several strands of her thick brown hair with it.

Maya rubbed her scalp, untangled the ribbon, and skipped toward the juice boxes without looking back.

I didn't hesitate.

I rose from the carrel, stepped toward the display, and knelt down as if tying my shoe. My fingers swept the wooden shelf.

There, caught on the metal bracket, was the blue velvet ribbon. Tangled in the fibers were four long strands of dark brown hair.

At the ends of two strands, clearly visible under the overhead lighting, were the tiny, translucent white bulbs of the root follicles.

Viable DNA.

With trembling fingers, I pulled the specimen bag from my pocket, slipped the ribbon and hair inside, sealed the ziplock, and slid it into the lining of my purse.

I stood up, my breath catching in my throat.