I feel terrible for Owen when Raffey goes missing.
Maria told me he sleeps with that toy every night. His biological mother gave it to him when he was a baby. Even though he doesn’t remember her, he’s very attached to the toy because it’s all he has of her. Sometimes I wonder if that must bother Maria, but it doesn’t seem to.
“Sean’s first wife was a good woman,” she has told me. “I’m sad for her that she never got to see her son grow up.”
Sean and Maria launch an all-out search to find Raffey. They ask Leo if he’s seen the stuffed giraffe, and he says no, but he’s holding back. A mother always knows. So after they leave, I question him.
“Leo,” I say, “do you know where Raffey is?” My son chews on his lip. “No…”
“Leo. What did I say about lying?”
He drops his eyes. “Bobby will be mad if I say anything.”
Great. I should have known Bobby Masterson is behind this. “Leo, tell me where Raffey is.”
Leo looks me in the eyes, then promptly bursts into tears. My stomach sinks—I’m not going to get any information out of him right now. I’ve dealt with enough witnesses on the stand to know when you won’t get them to crack. Although most witnesses have a lot less snot coming out of their noses.
“Mom.”
Tristan has been sitting on a sofa, listening to the entire interaction. He stares at me with eyes that are so much like mine, it’s like looking into a mirror.
“Yes?” I say.
My older son lets out a sigh that makes him sound like he’s ninety rather than nine. “Owen’s toy is buried in Bobby’s backyard. I heard them talking about it.”
I nod. I can always count on him to tell me the truth. “Thanks, Tristan.”
Leo’s eyes fly open. “What are you going to do?” He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he tugs on my shirt with his other hand. “Don’t tell him I told. Please, Mom!”
“Don’t worry,” I say through my teeth. “I’m not going to let Bobby Masterson hurt you.” He’ll have to go through me first.
After calming Leo down, I reach for my phone to tell Maria where to find Raffey. Except just as I’m texting the message, I get another idea. Maria and I are going over to April’s house later today to discuss the fall carnival. The timing is perfect.
So just before I meet Maria outside on the way to April’s house, I send a text message from my burner phone:
There’s a surprise buried in your backyard.
I can’t wait to see the look on her face…
A few days later, I knock on Maria’s back door to say hello and ask if she wants to have some coffee and chat, and I catch her sitting at the kitchen table, watching something on YouTube. It’s only after I knock that I realized she’s watching April’s show. Sweet Secrets.
She looks embarrassed that I caught her. Not only that, but she has a plate of cookies sitting on the kitchen table next to her. I could recognize April’s cookies a mile away.
“Sean loves these cookies,” Maria explained to me. “April brought them by last night to try to make up for the whole fiasco with her son stealing Raffey. I’m trying to replicate the recipe, but I have a feeling they won’t come out as good.”
I stare at April on the screen. The secret to chocolate chip cookies is that you never use chocolate chips. You take a high-quality chocolate bar and slice it up.
“She does have a gift,” I admit.
“And,” Maria adds, “she’s really pretty.”
It’s true. Part of the reason April’s show is so popular is because of how she looks. She’s pretty, but also very photogenic. She looks great on camera.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say. “I promise. Sean is a good guy.”
“Maybe.” Maria shoves a cookie into her mouth. “I can’t stop eating these cookies. These are, like, insane. What does she put in them that makes them so good?”
“Poison,” I joke.
Her eyes widen. She stops chewing and puts her hand over her mouth. “I’m joking,” I say. “April wouldn’t poison you. You don’t really think
that, do you?”
I watch her face, waiting for her response. Because the truth is, I believe April is perfectly capable of poisoning someone. These cookies probably aren’t poison. But I’ve become very wary of eating anything she’s made. Everybody else gobbles up her treats, but I steer clear.
“No, I don’t think that,” Maria says. “But I do think she hopes I’ll get fat from them. And that’s just as bad.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “You know what will make you feel better?”
Maria raises her eyebrows, and I go to the comments on the YouTube video. I quickly type in: I’m worried if I make these cookies, I’ll gain a lot of weight like you have. Maria snickers as I post the comment.
“Oh my God, that’s awful!” she cries. “You should take it down.” “Oh, come on,” I say. “She deserves it.”
On the screen, April is pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven. She inhales deeply and smiles at the camera. There’s nothing like the smell of fresh-baked cookies.
“You’re right,” Maria says. “She does deserve it.”
