Dear debbie, p.10
Dear Debbie, page 10
When I’m satisfied that there is nothing recording me, I find a good spot at the periphery of her front yard and start digging in the mulch. It takes me about five minutes to dig a shallow grave in which to bury the first refill pack, and then I bury the others at two more locations in the garden. When I straighten up, I brush off my hands on my jeans and inspect my handiwork.
This will do nicely.
Next, I return to my home. It’s only two thirty, and I should be exhausted, but the adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and I feel like I could run a marathon. Actually, maybe running a marathon would be a better outlet for my frustration. Oh well, too late.
When I get inside, I drop the shovel back in the garage and climb into my Subaru. I recognize there is some risk in programming the address of my next destination into my GPS, but I have to take that chance. Massachusetts is impossible to navigate without a GPS, and it would be far worse to wander the streets in the middle of the night. Besides, my final destination is only a fifteen-minute drive away in Weymouth.
I follow the GPS directions, turning onto dark streets lit only by dim streetlights. After about fifteen minutes, the British accented voice on my phone announces, “You have reached your destination.”
I pull over down the road, recognizing that it could be problematic to park directly in front of Coach Robert Pike’s house. Back when I was sitting in his office, I had an uncomfortable buzzing in the back of my head. I’m still buzzing now, but it’s different. This time, I’m buzzing with excitement.
I took a detour to check out Pike’s house earlier on my way home from the school, just to make sure that he didn’t have any cameras on his property. But like Jo Dolan, Pike is not a camera sort of guy. Guard dogs maybe. But I didn’t hear any of those earlier either. This isn’t a swanky neighborhood where burglars are likely to break in.
Also, he’s not married and has no children. He lives completely alone.
My heart is still thrumming as I climb out of the car and step onto the street. I walk quickly and purposefully in the direction of Pike’s home. I’m not adept at picking locks, but I did notice one other thing when I was standing in front of his home earlier—something that made me feel confident that I would be able to get inside when I needed to.
When I reach Pike’s front lawn, I notice that he has two sprinkler heads separated by only a little over a foot. The one on the left has a brass-like cap, and it seems to be jutting out of the soil slightly more than the other one. I look around, checking one more time to make sure everybody in the neighborhood is sound asleep, and then I crouch down next to the brass sprinkler head. I reach down, and it lifts out easily.
It’s fake.
As quickly as I can, I unscrew the bottom of the fake sprinkler head. Sure enough, a key falls into my hand, as do a few twenty-dollar bills. I don’t want the money, and I’ll be putting the key back when I’m done. Nobody can know I was here, and if Coach Pike ate at least one of those brownies, which I am almost certain he must have done based on how he was eyeing them, he’s going to sleep through the entire night. Long enough for me to do what I need to do.
I take a deep breath and walk in the direction of his front door.
26
COOPER
I wake up at three in the morning, feeling sick to my stomach.
I don’t know if it was something I ate. Maybe it was those french fries that Debbie and I shared, because I haven’t felt quite right since then. Then again, I only ate six or seven fries. That doesn’t seem like enough to unsettle my stomach.
I sit up in bed, rubbing my abdomen with one hand and my eyes with the other. I sit there for a moment, debating if I want to attempt to throw up, and then decide against it. And that’s when I notice Debbie isn’t in bed beside me.
That’s weird.
Maybe she got sick from the french fries too. But that doesn’t explain where she went. I can see from here that she isn’t in the master bathroom. If she was feeling sick, where would she have gone?
By now, I’m too keyed up to sleep, so I stumble out of bed. All at once, a wave of dizziness hits me. The urge to vomit suddenly becomes overwhelming, and I make a mad dash for the toilet, where I empty the contents of my stomach in one impressive expulsion. I cling to the side of the toilet for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
“Debbie?” I croak.
I don’t know why I’m calling her name. She’s clearly not here. But my instinct when I’m sick is to call out for my wife.
I finally manage to get back to my feet, although I’m not as steady as I’d like. Debbie definitely is not in the bedroom. Presumably, she’s downstairs. Maybe she decided to make herself a cup of tea to settle her stomach. Actually, that sounds pretty good.
Maybe I’ll go downstairs and join her.
I don’t bother to change out of my undershirt and boxers as I make my way out into the hallway. Over the last several months, Debbie has been acting strangely. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it’s something. Every single day since we first started living together, Debbie has made the bed after we got up for the day. Then six months ago, she suddenly stopped making the bed.
It’s not that I care if she makes the bed. Frankly, I prefer not having to wrench the blankets out from under the mattress every night. But I can’t figure out why she stopped. And when I mentioned it, she just shrugged and changed the subject.
And now she forgot my lunch this morning. And tied my tie like a kindergartner might do it.
It feels like she’s keeping something from me—like there’s some sort of unspoken distance between us that is growing wider every day. I could blame it on the secrets I’ve kept from her, but everything I’ve done recently is because of the distance.
As I walk down the stairs, clinging to the banister, I make up my mind. I’m going to come clean.
This could be a big mistake. She’s going to be pissed. She might even decide to leave me. I wouldn’t blame her, but the right thing to do is to be honest. Get everything out in the open, and then we’ll figure out how to deal with it.
I know how it looks. But I swear, I’m not a bad guy. And I want to be a good husband. That’s all I want. I just…I screwed up. I love Debbie. Isn’t that what matters?
But when I get to the bottom of the stairs, the first floor is completely dark. I click on the light switch at the base of the stairs and look around, but there’s nobody here. Debbie isn’t in the kitchen having a cup of tea. She’s not here at all.
“Debbie?” I call out, just to be sure.
Nope. Nothing.
Even so, I wander the first floor of my house for several minutes, just confirming she’s not asleep on the sofa or something. But there’s no sign of my wife anywhere.
Where the hell did she go?
My next stop is the garage. It doesn’t seem possible that Debbie would have left the house at three in the morning, but when I push open the door to the garage, her car is gone.
I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that replaces the nausea. For some reason, my wife left the house in the middle of the night, and she went far enough that she took her car. Where could she possibly have gone?
A wave of dizziness washes over me, but I do my best to push it away. I don’t know why I feel so sick. Yes, it’s the middle of the night, but I don’t feel like I’m tired. I feel…
I feel drugged.
But how could I be? I didn’t take anything that would alter my consciousness in any way. I didn’t have anything to drink tonight. I haven’t taken so much as a baby aspirin.
Again, I have to cling to the banister as I make my way back upstairs to where I left my phone. Once at the top of the stairs, I hold on to the wall as I go down the hallway in the direction of the master bedroom. I make it back into my bed, and then I grab my phone from where it’s charging on the nightstand.
I bring up the Findly app. There are flashing dots on the map indicating where each member of my family is. Both of the kids are home, thank God. I don’t know what I would think if both of them were missing as well. But Debbie’s dot is not positioned over our home, and as far as I can see, she is still sharing her location.
I squint down at the screen. It looks like she’s at an address in Weymouth. It doesn’t sound familiar to me. In fact, as far as I can remember, I don’t know anyone who lives in Weymouth, although it’s just the next town over.
When I click on her dot, a street name pops up. There’s no guarantee it’s one hundred percent accurate, but just in case it is, I scribble it down on the notepad that I keep on the nightstand. It’s barely legible but good enough.
I stare at the address, trying to figure out where Debbie would be at this hour. An affair with another man? Christ, that would be…awful.
Maybe I should call her. Instead of lying here, wondering what the hell she’s doing, I could call her right now and demand to know where she is. It would certainly be a reasonable thing to do.
But before I can call her, the dot on the screen starts moving. Wherever she went, she’s leaving right now.
I drop my phone and rest my head on the pillow. Debbie is only fifteen minutes away, which means she’ll be home soon. As soon as she gets home, I’m going to ask her where she was. We’re going to sit down and have a long discussion about…well, about everything.
Like I said, it’s time to come clean. Her dirty laundry and my dirty laundry.
Except about two minutes after I vow to talk to my wife as soon as she gets back home, I pass out and don’t wake up till the next morning.
27
DEBBIE
I wake up early the next morning feeling oddly refreshed, even though I took a little middle-of-the-night excursion.
Cooper is passed out next to me in bed, snoring more loudly than he usually does, drool pooling in the right corner of his mouth. Unsurprisingly, he’s still out cold.
I slide out of bed as quietly as I can and hit the shower. There’s nothing like a nice, hot shower to start the day, and I turn up the temperature as high as it will go. Cooper always takes lukewarm showers, but in my opinion, a shower can never be hot enough. You could drop me in a pot of boiling water, and I’d turn up the heat a few degrees.
I dress quietly, putting on another dark blouse with a pair of wide leg jeans that have recently become all the rage. Lexi seethed when I first wore them, because she felt wide leg jeans belonged to her generation, and I was “too old” to pull it off. But I actually think they’re very flattering.
The hallway of the second floor of my house is silent—both girls have another hour until their alarms go off for the day. I should be back before that happens.
I get in my Subaru, and twenty minutes later, I am pulling up in front of Kenneth Bryant’s house. Unlike last night, the street is well lit, and there are people leaving their houses to start their day. Still, I’m pretty sure nobody will notice my unassuming vehicle. And it’s not like a middle-aged housewife attracts any unwanted attention around here.
The lights are on in Ken’s house as I approach the front door, my purse slung on my shoulder. Cooper told me Ken’s always the first one at the office in the morning and the last to leave, so I was certain he’d be awake when I arrived. He’s probably enjoying a nice cup of coffee while reading the morning news.
I press the doorbell.
A minute later, the locks turn on the other side of the door. The door cracks open to reveal a tall man with thin hair and even thinner lips. I’ve never met him, because Ken Bryant never had any interest in socializing, but I recognize him from photos. He narrows his eyes at me.
“I don’t speak to solicitors,” he barks at me.
My, what a lovely greeting. How about hello?
“Actually,” I say, “I’m Debbie Mullen.” He looks at me blankly, so I add, “Cooper’s wife.” He still looks confused, so I further clarify, “Cooper Mullen. Your employee.”
“Oh.” He allows the door to swing open another inch. “Right. Cooper’s wife. Dottie.”
“Debbie.” I clear my throat. “May I please come in?”
Ken looks like he’s considering slamming the door in my face, but after a moment of deliberation, he steps aside to allow me to enter. It’s a start.
I’ve never been inside my husband’s boss’s home, and it’s about what I expected. It’s a large living space but spartan and without personality. I’ve seen homes staged for viewings that had more personality than this house. He has a leather sofa, but he doesn’t offer me a seat.
“You probably want to talk to me about Cooper getting a promotion,” he grumbles.
“Well,” I say, “yes. My husband has been with your company for a long time, and he’s a hard worker.”
“He’s also extremely replaceable.” He cinches his tie a little tighter around his neck, and I imagine grabbing it and cinching it as tight as it can go. “He does his job and nothing more. He brings nothing special to the table. He’s the most ordinary employee I’ve ever had, and when he goes, there will be five more candidates just like him who will work for less money.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
He shrugs. “With all due respect, your husband quit, and I think I’m better off without him.”
I reach into my purse, sifting through what feels like an endless supply of bunched-up napkins. I pull out a pair of leather gloves, and Ken frowns as I slide them onto my hands.
“What are you doing?” he asks me. “Are you cold?”
I don’t answer his question. The gun I pull from my purse answers it for me.
“Wh-what…” he stammers, his face turning pale. “What are you doing?”
I gesture at the sofa with the barrel of the gun. “Please have a seat, Mr. Bryant.”
He clutches his chest, and for a moment, I wonder if nature will do the job for me. But then he collapses onto the sofa, and he’s still conscious. I need him to stay with me long enough to bind his wrists, then march him upstairs and into the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” he asks me again. “This isn’t about Cooper’s job, is it? Because I—”
“Stop talking,” I say in a sharp voice that silences him instantly.
I stare down at the older man, who is trembling on the living room sofa. Then I look down at the gun gripped in my right hand. Am I really going to do this? It’s one thing to cut some wires in a fuse box or poison sandwiches, but it’s an entirely different thing to…
I am about to cross a line. And once I do, I won’t be able to go back. Then again, this has been a long time coming.
I’m glad I wore black to hide the bloodstains.
28
COOPER
The phone is ringing.
It feels like it’s been ringing for a while. I’m lying in bed, my head throbbing slightly, willing it to stop. And it finally does stop when the phone goes to voicemail, but whoever it is just calls back again. It’s an endless cycle.
“All right, damn it!”
Through my haze, I recall that there could be a name on the screen that I don’t want Debbie to see. Frantically, I feel around on my nightstand, but when I grab my phone, the screen is black. My phone isn’t the one that was ringing. It’s Debbie’s phone that’s ringing. Over and over and over. My relief is replaced by curiosity.
That’s when I become aware of another sound. It’s the sound of the shower running in the master bathroom. I had told myself I was going to stay awake until Debbie got home, but I clearly failed at that task. I passed out almost immediately after lying down, and right now, I feel like I got hit by a truck. My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert.
Why do I feel hungover?
Debbie’s phone stops ringing, and I say a silent thank you. But then thirty seconds later, it starts again. I throw Debbie’s pillow on top of my face, trying to stifle the sound of the ringing phone. But it’s no use. Whoever is calling my wife wants to talk to her really badly.
“Debbie?” I call out. “You coming out soon?”
There’s no answer, but she’s definitely in there. I can hear her singing, which is weird because Debbie doesn’t usually sing in the shower.
Finally, I give in. I grab the phone off the nightstand next to Debbie’s side of the bed. The name on the screen is Garrett Meers. Debbie’s boss.
What the hell is he calling about over and over again? They can’t possibly have a news emergency that involves Debbie. First of all, my wife writes an advice column. What’s an advice column emergency? Somebody has a party in fifteen minutes and doesn’t know how to get grass stains out of her dress?
But clearly, Garrett is freaking out. Which is also weird, because I met the guy once, and he seemed pretty laid-back to me.
I swipe to take the call, and before I can even say hello, Garrett’s voice booms in my ear, “Debbie! Debbie, what the hell did you do?”
“Uh, hello?” I say.
Garrett is momentarily thrown off by the sound of my voice. “Who is this?”
“It’s Cooper.” Because he doesn’t respond, I add, “Debbie’s husband.”
“Where’s Debbie?” he demands to know. “I need to talk to her right away!”
I struggle into a sitting position, and the pounding in my head intensifies. “Sorry, she’s in the shower.”
“Then get her out of the shower! I need to talk to her right now!”
“Uh, no?” I rub my eyes. “Whatever is wrong—”
“Whatever is wrong!” he bursts out. “There’s pornography on the newspaper’s website. That’s what’s wrong! And it’s not just pornography, it’s… Look, I know Debbie has the password for our website. Just because I fired her—”
“You fired Debbie?” I repeat, unable to keep the astonishment out of my voice.
That throws Garrett for a loop. “Oh. I thought she would’ve… Well, anyway, yes. There was an issue with a lawsuit, and… Sorry, but I didn’t have a choice. But what the hell? She needs to get it down this minute!” His voice is getting louder with each word. “Do you understand what I’m saying? She’s going to ruin me!”
