Want to Know a Secret? (59)

I know you are inside the house, April.



And then I hear the creak of footsteps on the staircase.





Chapter 37


JULIE



Want to know a secret?

April Masterson is the evilest woman you’ll ever meet. Everything she has told you has been a lie.

I should know. She’s my best friend.




FIVE YEARS EARLIER



My heels clack noisily on the hardwood floor of my new house that was only erected one month earlier. The chimes of the doorbell echo through the living room, which still has a few boxes I haven’t unpacked yet. I’ll get to them tonight—I absolutely hate stacks of boxes.

I look through the peephole, because I’m still used to living in Manhattan, where there’s just as likely to be a burglar standing on the other side of the door as a neighbor holding a plate of cookies. But today, it’s the plate of cookies. A woman is standing there, smiling brightly at my closed door.

I throw open the door and force a smile, even though my head is still aching from being on hold with the cable company for two straight hours. “Hello…”

The woman standing at my front door is extremely pretty. Pretty in an open, friendly way, with her blond hair pulled into a perfectly messy bun, earnest blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She’s the sort of woman everybody instantly likes.

“Hi!” she chirps. “I’m April! I live two houses down the block. You must be Julie!”

“Uh, yes…”

She beams at me. “I brought you some cookies.”

“Oh.” I have to admit, her cookies look delicious. I could use a cookie right now. “Won’t you come in?”

“I’d love to!”

April follows me into my house, clutching her plate of chocolate chip cookies. Her lips part slightly as she looks around the living room. It’s extravagant—I know. Keith drew up the plans for the house, and I didn’t realize quite how big it was until I saw it being built. And then it was too late. Now I’m in this ridiculously large house for God knows how long. Probably at least until the boys are in college.

“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.”