**Diary Entry**
Today was supposed to be just another school day—carefully planned, ordinary. I’d organised a “Career Day” for my Year 4 class, inviting professionals to inspire the children. A doctor, a solicitor, a young software developer, a firefighter—and finally, a police officer with his K9 partner, a German Shepherd named Rex.
The children were thrilled, giggling as they tried on helmets and listened eagerly. But when Rex stepped into the room, everything shifted. His ears pricked, a low growl rumbling in his chest before he erupted into furious barking—directly at *me*. His handler was stunned. “He’s never done this before,” he muttered, pulling Rex back.
My hands trembled. “Perhaps it’s my perfume?” I offered weakly.
But the officer wasn’t convinced. After lessons, he discreetly showed Rex an old mugshot from the criminal database. The reaction was instant—another eruption of barks.
By evening, he’d dug deeper. My passport, issued only seven years ago, didn’t match records of my birthplace. The truth unravelled quickly.
Fifteen years ago, I was part of an armed bank heist in Manchester. Two accomplices went to prison, but I vanished—declared dead after a warehouse fire. I changed my name, my appearance, moved to Surrey, and rebuilt my life. For years, I’d been the model teacher: patient, kind.
Yet a dog’s memory outlasted my disguise. Rex had been trained to track suspects from old cases. My scent—lingering from that life—betrayed me.
They arrested me today. The children cried. Parents stared in disbelief. How could their Miss Wilkinson, who taught them fractions and read them *The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe*, have once been someone else entirely?
Funny, isn’t it? All those years hiding in plain sight—undone by a dog’s nose.
