Dog won’t stop barking at teacher — his instinct uncovers a chilling secret…

Too normal. Third grade art hung proudly in the hallway. Children’s laughter filtered from classrooms.

A staff. Member. An older woman with silver curls.

Smiled warmly as Kane passed. But Ranger didn’t look at her. He kept walking.

They passed the library. The gym. The cafeteria.

Then outside room 112. Speech and counseling services. Ranger froze.

Ears up. Nose twitching. He let out a soft but clear whine.

Kane crouched. What is it, boy? Ranger stepped to the door, nose pressed near the floor. Seam and growled.

Low, quiet, but intense. Kane’s pulse quickened. He knocked twice.

A voice answered cheerfully. Come in. Inside sat a warm-looking woman in her early 60s.

Glasses perched on the tip of her nose. A pencil skirt. Cardigan.

Soft curls pinned back. You must be the officer, she said. Sheriff told me you might stop by.

I’m Ms. Darla. I’m the school’s part-time speech therapist. Not Dana.

Darla. But the vowels hit Kane like a slap. Ranger didn’t stop growling.

Not this time. Kane scanned the room. A child’s folder open.

On her desk. Files neatly stacked. A school board certificate from Hillside University.

A place Kane knew didn’t exist. You’ve only been here a few months? Kane asked, stepping closer. Just since February, she replied.

Small. Towns don’t always get full-time specialists. Kane’s eyes narrowed.

Mind if I ask where you worked before that? She smiled. I’ve moved around a lot. Military husband.

Always packing up. And where is your husband now? The smile faded, just for a second. Deployed.

She said softly. Somewhere overseas. Kane looked at the books on her shelf.

Titles about childhood development. Attachment trauma. Speech recovery.

But one book stood out. It wasn’t about education at all. It was a memoir.

Broken trust. Inside the mind of a predator. A sticker covered part of the spine…