A new neighbor, a nervous smile, and a glance that lingered too long on my husband through the window. She said fate brought her here—but the way she looked at Dave made me wonder if it was something else entirely.
Her name was April, with a little girl named Lily. She seemed wary, fragile, her smile polite but empty. I offered help with her boxes, but her eyes kept drifting—not to me, not to the house—but to Dave.
When I mentioned her later, Dave brushed it off too quickly. His jaw clenched, his knife hit the cutting board harder than it should have. That night, I saw him slip out. Not lost, not helping—just walking straight into April’s house like he knew it.
Inside, they stood close, guilty. She muttered about a suitcase. He lied, calm and flat. I pretended to believe them, but later, I found proof: an old photo of them together, arms wrapped, grinning like lovers.
When I confronted him, he confessed. April wasn’t just a neighbor. She was his past—and Lily might be his daughter.
