Today, neither the familiar environment nor the familiar woman soothed her. When she’d called Tess to ask if she could swing by, Leah had hoped she’d be able to conduct herself normally during this confrontation. Now she doubted that possibility. Tension had turned her stomach to stone. Moving oxygen into her lungs required effort.

“I made cookies.” Tess moved toward the breakfast nook, where they’d shared many, many cookies and conversations.

Leah remained still. “This isn’t a social call.”

“Oh?” Tess halted.

“I know that you switched me with another baby the day of my birth.”

Sadness lit inside Tess’s eyes. Otherwise, she remained dignified and still. “I see.”

Rustling sounded from the hallway just before Rudy appeared, beaming. “Leah!”

“Leah and I need to speak about something privately,” Tess said to her husband. “I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

“That’ll be fine, but . . . are those oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I smell?”

Tess fetched two cookies and handed them to him.

“How ’bout one more?” he asked.

“No,” Tess answered crisply. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite for dinner. Now head back and watch TV for a bit.”

He winked at Leah. “Good to see you, hon.”

“Good to see you, too.”

He trundled down the hallway.

Tess motioned to the breakfast nook. “Shall we?”

Leah hesitated. Cookies were cozy, and she wasn’t feeling cozy.

“I expect that you have questions for me,” Tess said. “We’ll be more comfortable sitting down. Shall we?”

Stiffly, Leah took her usual seat at the round table.

Tess poured milk into two glasses. A dusky blue plate supported the cookies . . . a testament to the dozens of batches of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that Tess had made for Leah and Dylan through the years.

Tess sat, then took a slow sip of milk.

Leah didn’t reach for either the milk or the cookies.

Tess was a controlled person, not given to fissures of emotion. Even so, given the magnitude of Leah’s bombshell, Tess’s response seemed tremendously understated.

The older woman carefully positioned her glass on the table, her knobby fingers loosely encircling its base. “I’ve thought for some time that you might find out.”

“Why did you do it?”

“If you know what I did, then I’m guessing you know something of my motive.”

“I think it has to do with your son Ian.”

“Yes. My son Ian.” Her sigh spoke of pain. “I wish I could explain to you what a joy he was to me. He had such a sweet nature. Quiet and kind. Full of fairness. Every year his teachers would give him citizenship awards. Best Listener. Best Helper and the like.”