I always believed I could recognize deception instantly. My mother, Nancy, raised me on order and honesty—at least the version of honesty she approved of. Keep the yard neat. Keep your appearance polished. And keep your secrets tucked so far away that no one ever stumbles across them. By thirty-eight, I thought I had perfected that way of living. I was raising two daughters, married to a charismatic man, and keeping our neighborhood watch spreadsheet meticulously updated. My weekly worries revolved around flower choices and school lunches. Then Mr. Whitmore passed away. And everything I thought I understood about my…
