Page 75 of Want to Know a Secret?

“You have such a beautiful house,” April says as she puts the plate of cookies on our kitchen island. “I was so excited when I saw it being built.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Have you lived here long?”

“A couple of years,” she says. “We moved here right after my son Bobby was born.”

My heart leaps. “I have a son about the same age. Leo is two. He’s napping upstairs.”

“Same age as Bobby!” April is practically glowing. “And coincidentally, Bobby is also napping right now. At our house, of course.”

I furrow my brow. Wait, if her son is napping, who’s watching him? Is her husband home in the middle of the day? Does she have a babysitter with him?

She couldn’t have left him all alone, could she?

No, I’m sure someone is watching him.

“This is so exciting!” April is gushing. “We’ll have to get them together for a playdate!”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say.

A playdate. Even though I have two sons, the concept is still strange to me. Up until six months ago, I’d been working in the DA’s office. It was what I had been doing since I graduated from law school, and it was what I was born to do. But after Leo came along, I felt stretched thin. Keith started pushing me to cut back on work, but that was impossible. So then he started pushing me to leave entirely. Move out to the suburbs.

And now here we are.

April prattles on about life in our town while I take a bite of one of her cookies. It’s incredibly delicious. Maybe the best cookie I’ve ever had in my life. So good that I can’t stop eating them, and before I know it, I’ve demolished half the plate, while April hasn’t even had one.

“These are good!” I say. “Are you a professional?”

Her cheeks color. “No. Well, not exactly. I have this little YouTube show where I give out baking tips, but hardly anyone watches it.”

This woman is so sweet. At least, she seems sweet. If I were still back in the DA’s office, I would have trouble getting a jury to convict April Masterson. You would think looks don’t matter in a courtroom, but let me assure you they do. When you look at April, you believe her. Nobody with a face like that could be a liar.

It’s funny, because I’m the opposite. Dark hair, penetrating dark eyes that a few people have told me are “scary.” It served me well in my job. I’m not sure how well it will serve me now that I’m a housewife and stay at home mom.

While we’re eating the cookies, my older son Tristan wanders downstairs. Of my two children, he looks the most like me, with his pale skin and dark hair and eyes, but more than that, he reminds me a lot of myself. He’s very focused and disciplined. And honest. He’s only four years old, but sometimes he acts forty.

“I’m just getting my Thomas engine,” Tristan explains, as he pulls his Thomas the Tank Engine toy from the toy box in the living room.

“Tristan!” I call to him. “Come meet April Masterson, our new neighbor.”

He hesitates for a moment, then comes over to the kitchen table, clutching his blue train. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Masterson.”

April throws back her head and laughs. “Oh my, so polite! You can call me April, Tristan.”

Tristan looks to me for approval, and I nod in my head. “Okay,” he says.

“Have a cookie!” She pushes the plate of chocolate chip cookies in his direction. “They’re chocolate chip.”

I frown. I don’t like the fact that April offered my son a cookie without asking me if it was okay. The convention is you always ask the parents first, isn’t it? Then again, I hate to be the cookie police. And it’s hard for me to throw stones, considering I’ve eaten half a dozen cookies myself. They’re addictive.

Tristan again looks at me for approval. I nod, and he reaches for a cookie. “Can I take it up to my room, Mommy?”

“Yes. As long as you don’t make crumbs.”

Tristan takes a paper towel and gently rests his cookie on top of it. Then he goes upstairs to his room with his train and his cookie.

After he’s gone, April looks at me with an expression I could only describe as curious amusement. “What a well-behaved child!”

It sounds like a compliment, but somehow there’s an edge to her voice. Like she’s silently judging me. “Thank you,” I say anyway.