Want to Know a Secret?, page 2
part #7 of Novel Series
Where is he??? Tell me now!!!!!!
No reply.
In the past, I’ve done a reverse lookup for phone numbers. You can get the information for free from the online White Pages. Maybe I can find out who sent me the text message.
My hands are shaking as I bring up the White Pages on my phone. It takes me three tries to successfully copy the phone number of the person who texted me into the search engine. I stand there, my legs trembling, as my phone hourglasses. Finally, the screen flashes with the result:
Unknown registrant. No name is associated with this number.
Whoever sent me that message did it from a blocked number.
I feel like I’m going to pass out. I know I need to call the police. But the idea of it fills me with sick dread, because a call to the police would be admitting he’s really gone. The police will have to start searching for him. I can only imagine their questions.
When did you last see your son, Mrs. Masterson?
I was cooking in the kitchen and he went out to play in the backyard. And then I got this text message...
So you weren’t watching him?
I feel a stab of guilt. I should have been watching him. I never should have taken my eyes off of him. But he was in our own backyard, for God’s sake! With the gate locked! And he’s not a toddler—he’s seven years old. That should be old enough to play in his own backyard. Right?
I told him about Stranger Danger, of course. Never talk to strangers. Never go off with strangers. But I know Bobby. If a stranger offered him candy, he’d skip off with them in a heartbeat despite all the warnings. He’s helpless to resist candy.
The police will have to organize some sort of search party. They’ll check all the houses in a certain mile radius, then they’ll have to extend to the parks and that wooded area at the edge of town. And the lake. Oh God, the lake…
I choke back a sob.
I’ve got to get back to the house. If Elliot hasn’t found him, we’ll have to call the police. And in the meantime, we should probably check with the neighbors. See if they saw a strange van, or a bearded stranger lurking around my house. And maybe they can trace who sent me that horrible text message.
As I jog back to our house, I happen to see the lights on inside the house of our new neighbors. Their white SUV—practically identical to mine, except an older model—is parked in their driveway. Just a week ago, a new family moved into the house after poor old Mrs. Kirkland passed on. I haven’t even had a chance to stop in and say hello yet.
I hesitate near their driveway, staring at the mailbox with the name Cooper etched on the side. These people are right next-door to us. Maybe they saw something. This is not the introduction I wanted to have to our new neighbors—telling them I’ve lost my son—but I’m desperate. Every moment counts at a time like this.
I race up the steps to the blue house and rap my fist against the door. My hand is shaking badly. My whole body feels like it’s buzzing. Who would do this to me? Why is somebody targeting me? This can’t possibly be about a tray of burned cookies.
After a minute or so, the door swings open. A woman in her early thirties with olive skin and dark brown hair loosely pulled back into a bun stands before me. She has a plain face, but when she smiles, dimples pucker on either cheek, which gives her a sweet, friendly appearance. There’s something strangely familiar about her, but I can’t seem to place her.
“Hello,” she says. “May I help you?”
“Hello.” My voice cracks. “Um, my name is April. I live next door…”
“Hi, April.” Her brow furrows in concern. “I’m Maria. Is everything okay?”
“No. It’s not.” My voice is shaking again, threatening to break. “My son, Bobby…”
I hear some shouting behind her, and before I can get out the rest of the sentence, my jaw drops open.
It’s Bobby. Sitting in this woman’s living room, playing with Legos with another little boy.
“Hi, Mom,” he says, like I haven’t nearly dropped dead of a stroke while looking for him. The rush of relief I feel almost knocks me off my feet.
“Bobby!” I scream.
I run over to him and drop to my knees on the floor. I don’t know whether to shake him or hug him. I do a little bit of both.
“I had no idea where you were!” I cry as I press his skinny body to my chest. “I was so scared! You scared me so much!”
And now Bobby is crying. We’re both crying and hugging each other. It’s a bit of an embarrassing display in front of the new neighbor, but I don’t care. What the hell was he doing here anyway?
“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” the woman, Maria, is saying to me. “He showed up on our front lawn and said you told him he could come over to play with Owen. I had no idea you didn’t realize he was here!”
I look up at my new neighbor, studying her expression. Her brown eyes are wide and she looks embarrassed, apologetic, and almost tearful. She certainly doesn’t look like a psychopath who just sent me a threatening text message and stole my son out of my backyard for a playdate. I don’t think there’s any chance of that.
I do believe Bobby might get it into his head to wander out of our backyard. Anyway, he and I are going to have a very long talk tonight. After I spend the rest of the day covering him in hugs and kisses.
I shoot off a quick text to Elliot: Found him. He was at the neighbor’s house.
Elliot’s response comes a second later: Told you. Going to work now.
How could Elliot not even want to see Bobby after he thought he was missing? I don’t understand men at all.
“You must have been worried sick,” Maria says. She gets it, at least. “I can only imagine!”
I struggle back to my feet, wiping tears from my eyes. “At least he was safe the whole time.”
“Absolutely!” Maria offers me a smile, which makes me want to hug her. This woman found my baby. God knows where he would have ended up if he didn’t come here. “And he had such a good time with Owen. Poor Owen doesn’t have any friends in the neighborhood yet. I would be happy to have Bobby over again, with your permission, of course.”
I’m not sure about that. After this, I may have to duct tape Bobby to my right leg. It might be challenging to do my show, but viewers would understand. April’s Sweet Secrets—now with a screaming second-grader in every episode!
“That would be nice,” I finally say. And I mean it. “By the way, I’m so sorry we haven’t managed to connect yet. I was meaning to stop by in the next day or two.”
Maria waves a hand. “No worries! It’s so busy with school starting soon...”
“Yes, us too! It’s been crazy, hasn’t it?”
“Well,” Maria says, “now that you’re here, would you like to have some coffee while the boys play? Get off your feet?”
I shift in my flats. My right foot is throbbing. “That would be nice. Thanks.”
I feel a rush of relief that Bobby is safe and sound in this woman’s living room. He was never in any danger after all. Except I can’t ignore the fact that somebody did send me a text message about him.
Of course, maybe the text wasn’t as ominous as it sounded. Maybe whoever sent it saw Bobby leaving the backyard and wanted to warn me he was gone. Maybe the person was a good Samaritan.
But if that was the case, why did the text come from a blocked number?
I’m making too much of this. Bobby was never missing. He’s fine. And lots of people in our town have blocked numbers. I’m not going to panic over a text message. It’s not like I haven’t gotten my share of disturbing comments on my YouTube videos over the last several years. I need to just put it out of my head.
So I follow Maria into the kitchen for coffee.
Chapter 3
Maria’s kitchen is small but incredibly cozy. It’s about half the size of our kitchen. Maybe even less. But that makes sense, since Maria’s house is about half the size of ours or maybe even less. But the kitchen suits her. It’s small, no-frills, and everything seems very well organized. I appreciate a well-organized kitchen. I even have a show on the secrets to a well-organized kitchen.
“How do you take your coffee?” Maria asks as she gets the coffee machine going. “I’ve got cream and sugar.”
Maria’s coffee machine looks like the one my mother had when I was a little kid. It’s old-school. She pours coffee grounds into a little filter and flips a switch to turn it on. I have to admit, I’m very particular about my coffee. A year ago, I bought a machine that makes espressos and cappuccinos right in the comfort of my own kitchen. It was not cheap, but I justified it as a business expense by doing an episode of Sweet Secrets about the secret to making the perfect cappuccino.
The secret, in case you were wondering, is using ice-cold milk right out of the refrigerator to make the perfect foam. (And also, purchasing a five-hundred-dollar cappuccino machine.)
“Cream and sugar would be great, thanks,” I say. I glance out the window at our own house, clearly visible across the way. I left the lights on in the kitchen. “Actually, I made some brownies for you guys. I’ll bring them by later.”
I’ll give her the brownies from my show today. I’ll make something else for Carrie tomorrow.
Maria’s eyes light up. “Owen would love that. I am hopeless in the kitchen, especially when it comes to baking.”
“I’ve always been pretty good at baking,” I say. “I have a little YouTube show about it.”
“Oh, I know!” When I look at her in surprise, Maria’s cheeks flush. “Sorry, a few people mentioned to me that you’ve got the show and I watched it the other day. You’re sort of a celebrity around here, you know!”
Now it’s my turn to blush. “Am I?”
She nods eagerly. “The show is great. I tried to make your homemade chocolate chip cookies, but I’m so hopeless, they came out terrible.”
She rifles around in the refrigerator, looking for the milk. I can’t help but crane my neck to look over her shoulder. I know it sounds crazy, but I am very curious about other people’s refrigerators. Maybe it’s because I love to cook so much. I feel like the inside of a person’s refrigerator tells you a lot about them.
For example, Maria’s refrigerator is just like the rest of her house. It’s small and neat, without much inside, but very well organized. I spy a few pieces of fruit in the crisper, a container of milk, orange juice, a loaf of bread, and some cold cuts. I suppose they’re the sort of family that gets takeout a lot.
“So what brought you out here?” I ask, as Maria removes the container of milk from her fridge. I quickly peek at the expiration date—she’s got two more days.
She glances at the coffee machine. It’s still churning. “Our last apartment was in a terrible school district. There was a lot of bullying at the school and nobody seemed to care. We wanted something better for Owen.”
I nod eagerly. “The schools are amazing here. Owen will love it. What grade is he in?”
“Second grade.”
I do my best to hide my surprise—based on his size, I thought for sure Owen was in first grade or maybe even kindergarten. “Same as Bobby! Who is his teacher?”
“Mrs. Reynolds.”
My heart leaps in my chest. “That’s amazing! That’s Bobby’s teacher. They’re in the same class!”
Maria clutches her chest. “That’s wonderful. I’ve been so nervous about Owen making friends, but it seems like he and Bobby are getting along great.”
This is incredible. I had been hoping to have a neighbor that I could be more friendly with than elderly Mrs. Kirkland, but I hadn’t dreamed of getting a neighbor with a little boy Bobby’s age in the same class as him. It will be so nice for Bobby to have a friend on the block whose mother isn’t… well, Julie. Not that I don’t love Julie, but she can be intense. And Leo is so overbooked with afterschool activities, he never has time to play.
“Are you planning to join the PTA?” I ask.
She hesitates. “I wasn’t sure. I got a flyer about a meeting this week. Do a lot of people join?”
“Oh my God, yes.” I’m embarrassed to tell her how much of my life is consumed by the PTA. But at least I’m doing work for a good cause—my kid’s school. “And Julie—she lives on the other side of you—she’s the president of the PTA this year and she’s going to push you to join. For sure.”
A funny smile plays on Maria’s lips. “Yes, I’ve already gotten a few notes from Julie. She says she’s the… block captain?”
I groan. “Yeah, she pretty much made that up to feel important. It’s not like we voted for her or anything. At least, I didn’t. She organizes all the stuff on our block, like yard sales and the book club… that’s next Thursday, by the way, in case you want to come.”
“Yes, I saw the book was almost six-hundred pages. That seems a bit… challenging.”
I lift a shoulder. “Honestly, I have no idea. We never discuss the book for more than a minute or two. We spend most of the time gossiping. Julie picks the books, and they’re always the longest, most boring books in the world.”
She laughs. “So it’s okay if I didn’t read it?”
“Heck yes. I sure haven’t.”
The coffee machine lets out an obnoxious buzzing noise that sets off a jab of pain in my left temple. I’m already planning to buy Maria a new coffee machine for Christmas. You can never start planning for Christmas too early. During all of December, I usually do Christmas-themed episodes of Sweet Secrets.
Maria pours me a cup of coffee in a white mug with a little crack on the side. I pour in some milk and a few teaspoons of sugar, then take a sip. Just as I suspected—it’s awful. Barely edible. I’m definitely buying her a coffee machine. Something amazing. It will change her life.
Her eyebrows bunch together. “Is the coffee okay?”
“It’s fine!” I pour in a little more milk in an attempt to make it tolerable. “Delicious. But you know, the secret to a really good cup of coffee in any machine is grinding your own beans. It’s never going to taste as good if you buy coffee grounds at the supermarket.”
Maria nods politely. “Oh, okay.”
“Sorry!” I say quickly. “This coffee is fine. It’s just… This is what I do, and it’s hard to turn off the tips, you know?”
“Of course. And thanks for the tip.” Maria takes a sip of her coffee and seems to be genuinely enjoying it. Huh. “Anyway, I would love to join the PTA. I’ll just have to see if I can fit it in with my work schedule.”
“You work?” I can’t disguise the surprise in my voice. Most women in this neighborhood are stay-at-home moms. With my weekly YouTube show, I do more than most.
She flashes me a self-conscious smile. “I manage Helena’s.”
Oh my God! So that’s why she looks familiar!
She raises her eyebrows. “Have you heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” I shake my head. “I love Helena’s! Your clothes look so great on camera. I could buy the whole store, except it would wreck my profit margin.”
That’s not an exaggeration. The last time I went to Helena’s, it was a hide-the-credit-card-bill situation. They have incredible stuff, and it’s also expensive. Whenever I look at the price tags, I want to cry. It’s like a tease to have such beautiful clothing that I can’t afford.
“Well,” Maria says, “I get a thirty percent employee discount that you’re welcome to take advantage of.”
“Are you serious?”
She nods.
Okay, this really is too good to be true. This lovely woman is my neighbor, and not only does she have a son the same age as mine, but she can get me thirty percent off at my favorite clothing store in the entire world.
“Thank you so much, Maria,” I say. “Believe me, I will pay you back in brownies. Or chocolate cake. Or scones. I make really good scones.”
She laughs, but I’m not kidding. I adore this woman. And I do make great scones. The secret is that you have to bake them close to each other. Scones like to be kissing.
I clear my throat. “So where is your husband? Is he at work?”
“Oh, no,” she says quickly, as if such a thing would be ridiculous. And it is ridiculous. I still can’t believe Elliot went to work after the scare we had. “Sean just stepped out to grab some groceries. He’ll be back soon.”
“What sort of work does he do?” I wonder if he’s a lawyer like Elliot and Julie’s husband. There are a lot of lawyers on this block. And bankers. Most of them commute into the city—I’m lucky Elliot has an office out on the island.
“He has a contracting business.” She lifts her chin. “He started it from scratch. And in the last couple of years, it’s taken off.”
As if on cue, the front door lock turns. I jerk my head around just in time to see a guy with light brown hair and a well-trimmed beard lumber into the living room holding a bag of groceries. That must be Sean.
“Daddy!” Owen screams.
He abandons his Lego creation and propels himself at his father. What follows is several minutes of pretty adorable roughhousing between father and son. Owen loves it. Bobby looks on with a crease between his eyebrows, which makes me realize that this is something Elliot never does with him.
When Sean finally disentangles himself from Owen, he looks up and his eyes widen at the sight of me sitting in his kitchen. He clears his throat.
“Sean,” Maria says, “this is April and her son Bobby. They live next door.”
He straightens up and retrieves the bag of groceries from the floor. I can’t help but notice his worn T-shirt and frayed blue jeans are a far cry from what my husband was wearing today. “Next door, huh? Are you the one who keeps leaving us notes about our car being parked wrong? Or are you the one who makes cookies on YouTube?”
I laugh. “Cookies.”
A smile spreads across his lips as he deposits the groceries on the kitchen counter. “Well, then it’s nice to meet you, April.”
Sean’s dark blue eyes meet mine as he sticks out a hand for me to shake. I can’t help but notice that his palm is rough and calloused compared with my husband’s. Hmm, Elliot might not be the hottest husband on the block anymore.
