I knew the jig was up this afternoon when Penelope accosted me in the hall at the Herald.

“McAllister, a word,” she squawked, jerking her head toward the break room.

Never good at coming up with excuses to get me out of undesirable situations, I dutifully followed.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, crossing her arms. “I know what’s going on.”

I feigned nonchalance. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play innocent with me.”

“Honestly, Penelope, I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”

“The tiredness. The paleness. The increase in appetite. The shakes.” She nodded, her eyes slits. “I know.”

My cheeks grew hot. Was it that obvious? Could people tell I was pregnant before my waistline (noticeably) started expanding? Would I be forced to divulge my secret because of this wily, observant old bird? Penelope was certainly not at the top of the list of people I wanted to tell. I believe there’s a sacredness attached to announcing that I’m carrying a new life inside me, and to have to reveal it to her before anyone else bordered on the profane.

“Here.” She pressed a slip of paper in my hand. “Call them. They’ll help.” She turned with a flounce of her layered skirt and left the room.

Bewildered, I unfolded the piece of paper and stared at the chicken scratch before throwing my head back to laugh. Of course. She had just done a series on addiction.

Narc-Anon: 404-708-3219

As long as Penelope doesn’t do any stories on telepathy, my secret is safe.