Dear debbie, p.22
Dear Debbie, page 22
And of course, I have no reason to believe she’s actually here. She has turned off location sharing, which means she could be anywhere. But this is the last address that she’s been to recently that is unfamiliar to me. So I’ve got to check it out.
It’s my only hope to find her.
I’ve been driving around the general area for about twenty minutes when I come across a dead-end street. There are two houses on the street, one of which looks completely abandoned. The other one looks like somebody does live there, but all the windows are dark. It doesn’t seem like anyone is home.
I almost turn around, but then I notice it. There are cars parked here. Around the side of the second house.
And one of them looks familiar.
I can’t get that close in my car, so I park and start walking toward the end of the street. The house is definitely dark, but I want to get a better look at that car. Is it possible that it belongs to Debbie?
As I get closer, I can see that it’s a blue Subaru Outback, just like Debbie’s. But that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily hers. It’s parked next to another car, which also seems weirdly familiar, but I can’t place it at the moment.
I stare at the license plate of the Subaru. Is that Debbie’s plate number? Christ, I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to remember my kids’ birthdays; license plate numbers are out of my wheelhouse. It does look familiar though.
I peer through the window of the car, hoping to see her purse or anything that looks like it belongs to her. Debbie doesn’t leave much inside her car—she’s very neat—but I do see a pair of sunglasses in the cupholder and recall how she always leaves them there. I remember, because I always want to put my Big Gulp there after Izzy’s soccer games, and it’s always occupied by Debbie’s sunglasses.
This is Debbie’s car. But where’s Debbie?
I walk back to the front of the house. All the windows on both floors are dark. It really looks like nobody is home. But if nobody is home, why would Debbie be here? Why would Debbie ever have been here?
I go to the front door of the house and press my finger against the doorbell, holding my breath. I don’t know why she’d be here, but maybe if I come clean with her, she’ll come clean with me.
Except nothing happens when I ring the doorbell. It must be broken.
I knock on the door, loud enough that at least anybody on the first floor would hear. I don’t hear any movement behind the door, so I knock again.
Still nothing.
All at once, I am banging on the door with both fists. I know Debbie is here. That’s her damn car outside, and there’s nowhere else she could be. I need to talk to her right now. I need to figure out a way to make this right, because I can’t lose her. I can’t.
I’ve been so stupid. I should have come clean with her about everything. I didn’t want her to lose respect for me, but nothing is worse than lying.
“Debbie!” I’m shouting now. “Debbie! Please come out! I need to talk to you!”
There’s still no sound from behind the door. But she’s here. She must be.
“Debbie!” I’m shouting loud enough that my voice is growing raspy. “Debbie! I love you!”
I think I’m too late.
68
DEBBIE
Jesse is out cold.
The gun is in my gloved hand, but I can’t just shoot him, as much as I would enjoy that. Killing Jesse will be therapeutic for me in a way that years of therapy could never be. But I have to be smart about this. I have gone to a lot of trouble to frame Jesse for multiple murders, and I can’t do anything that will lead the police to suspect that a third party was involved in what happened here today.
That means Jesse needs to shoot himself with his own hand.
The coroner will know the difference between somebody shot from several feet away and a suicide. Plus, there needs to be gunshot residue on Jesse’s right hand. The only way that can happen is if he is holding the gun.
I have to get up close and personal with him, which is the last thing I want to do. I sit down beside him on the sofa, and I can smell that horrible cologne. The last time I was this close to him, he was on top of me.
But he can’t hurt me anymore. He’s unconscious. And very soon, he’s going to be dead.
He can’t hurt you.
I repeat those words to myself over and over as I wrap his fingers around the handle of the gun. I point the barrel at his throat, aimed in the direction of his brains. One bullet should do it. One bullet, and this will all be over.
I place Jesse’s index finger on the trigger. I get ready to pull.
“Debbie!”
I freeze, my hand on Jesse’s, at the sound of the voice yelling my name. It takes me a second to realize that the voice belongs to my husband. For some reason, Cooper is out there, calling my name.
Oh my God, what is he doing here?
He must have seen this location in my history from when I visited Harley earlier in the week, even though I was careful to turn off my phone for this particular excursion. I didn’t even realize he knew where to look for that. He’s probably been driving around everywhere I’ve been in the last week, searching for me.
“Debbie!”
Why did he come here? Why couldn’t he have just waited at home until I was done with everything I had to do?
“Debbie! Debbie, I love you! Please!”
His words tug at me. I look down at the man lying unconscious on the sofa. I have spent the last eight months thinking about how he ruined my life. I had thought I was over it, but when I saw him, my hate and anxiety and shame over what happened to me grew with each passing day until I couldn’t bear it any longer.
But that’s unfair. My life isn’t ruined. My life is good in many ways. Yes, I didn’t end up with the career that I’d hoped to have. But I have two wonderful daughters. And I have a husband who loves me enough to drive around the South Shore in the middle of the night searching for me.
I have a lot.
But I can’t just abandon my entire plan. Two people are dead. And if I walk away right now, I’m going to take the blame for everything. I don’t have a choice anymore.
I put my right index finger over Jesse’s, and I pull the trigger.
69
When I exit Harley’s front door, I peel off my leather gloves and put them in my purse. The gun has been left behind, as planned.
I come around the side of the house, where Cooper has stopped screaming my name and is trying to look in one of the windows. Actually, he looks like he’s about to break in. He’s got a suspiciously large rock in his right hand, which he is raising in the air. I better put a quick stop to this.
“Cooper?”
He whirls around, arm still raised. His eyes widen when he sees me, and the rock falls from his right hand. He doesn’t say a word, but he runs over and throws his arms around me.
“Debbie,” he murmurs into my neck. “Jesus, I was so worried.”
At first, he is hugging me while I stand there stiffly. But after a few seconds, I realize I’m hugging him back. And then we’re clinging to each other. It takes a good several minutes before we pull away.
“I was so worried,” he says. “I thought I heard a gunshot.”
He absolutely did. But the bullet in question is lodged in the ceiling of Harley’s apartment.
Jesse is still alive.
“What was that sound?” he presses me.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I say. “Maybe it was a car backfiring?”
He looks like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t push it. “What are you doing here?”
“A friend of mine lives here.” It’s the truth for once. “She has the basement apartment with the entrance in the back. I came to see her, but I guess she forgot because she’s not answering her door.”
“Oh.”
He seems to believe me. There’s no reason he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know Harley, except from in passing at the gym, and has no reason to think I’d do anything to harm this stranger.
“So, uh…” I glance at our cars, trying not to think about that crime scene behind us. Does Cooper recognize Jesse’s car? He hasn’t mentioned it. “Should we go?”
“Not yet.” He grabs both my hands in his and squeezes tight. “I need you to know something, Debbie.”
“Okay…”
He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “I have a drinking problem.”
I blink at him. It’s not what I expected him to say. “What?”
He falters, like he’s not sure if he should continue, but then he plows forward. “It’s more than just a drinking problem. I…I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sneaking off to AA meetings without telling you.”
“For how long?”
“I’ve known since college.”
“Since college? And you never told me?”
“I know.” He hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Debbie. I’m so sorry. I was…I was ashamed, and that’s why I kept it from you. I should have told you the truth from the start, but you’re always so perfect and amazing and…and I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
He manages to raise his eyes to meet mine. He should have told me sooner, but I also understand why he didn’t. I can’t throw stones. And now?
It’s my turn.
“I was raped in college,” I say. “That’s why I dropped out.”
His jaw drops open. He stares at me for several seconds—too long—until I almost wish I hadn’t told him. But just when I’m about to try to figure out a way to take it back (“Ha-ha, wasn’t that a funny joke?”), he reaches over and pulls me into another tight hug. There are no words, only his warm, comforting body pressed against mine.
When he finally pulls away, his eyes are slightly damp. “I think,” he says, “we need couples therapy.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. No freaking kidding.
“There’s something I need to ask you though.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”
“Okay…”
His brows scrunch together. “Do you promise to tell me the truth?”
“I promise,” I say, hoping it’s a promise I can keep.
“Did you shoot Ken Bryant with my gun?”
I flinch. He must have gone over to Ken’s house. He must’ve seen him lying dead with the bullet wound in his head. He thinks I might have killed him, but instead of calling the police, he ran to find me.
“I swear on our children’s lives”—I place a hand on my chest—“I did not shoot Ken Bryant with your gun.”
And it’s true.
I used Jesse’s gun.
“Thank God.” He believes me. His body goes limp with relief. “I was worried that…well…” He heaves a sigh. “In that case, we better call the police when we get back home.”
I nod slowly.
“Also,” he adds, “my gun is missing from the safe. Do you know what happened to it?”
That’s another softball that I can answer truthfully. “I got rid of it.”
“You got rid of it?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I told you, you’re more likely to shoot a family member than an intruder.”
Cooper just shakes his head. It’s something we’ll have to talk out in therapy. And I have a feeling after tonight that he won’t be eager to have a gun in the house.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
He doesn’t have to ask me a second time.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
COOPER
I’m making breakfast this morning.
It’s nothing special. Just a couple of pieces of toast smeared with jam, paired with a bowl of cereal. I’m eating Debbie’s fiber cereal, because it’s actually sort of grown on me, believe it or not.
I would say my newfound love of fiber cereal is probably the thing that has changed least about our lives in the last year.
For starters, after Ken’s murder, I founded my own accounting firm, and it has flourished. I’ve now got a staff of half a dozen people, and we even got a favorable write-up in the Boston Globe. I never thought of myself as much of a businessman, but apparently, I’m better at it than I thought. I guess Debbie was right.
I still can’t believe Ken was murdered. Even worse, that my friend Jesse was the one who killed him. I refused to believe it at first, but the evidence kept mounting to the point where it was undeniable. Jesse stole money from the company, and when Ken found out, Jesse shot him.
And that’s not even the worst of it.
Jesse was having an affair with this trainer from the gym named Harley. I had seen her around several times before and remembered the pink streak in her hair. Debbie was friendly with her too, although I hadn’t really realized it at the time. I had seen Jesse talking to Harley a few times, and I had to admit, I did notice the low voices they used when they talked. But I never really thought he was having an affair, and with everything else going on in my life, I didn’t give it another thought. I mean, yes, I’m aware that plenty of men have affairs, but to me, it’s unthinkable.
Apparently, Harley was putting pressure on Jesse to leave his wife. She was threatening to rat him out if he didn’t do what she wanted. So he went to her house with the same gun he used to shoot Ken, and he killed her.
I later discovered that random address where I found Debbie was Harley’s apartment. Debbie explained to me that when she went over there to see Harley, she didn’t answer the door. Because, as it turned out, she was dead.
Debbie was the one who finally called the police, saying she was concerned about Harley’s boyfriend, although she had never met him before. The police arrived at Harley’s apartment and caught Jesse trying to scrub the place of his fingerprints while Harley lay dead on the living room floor.
He was arrested immediately.
The evidence was overwhelming, and he was essentially caught in the act. His trial took place last month, and when he asked me to be a character witness, I had to decline. Jesse was my friend, but there was no doubt in my mind that he killed our boss and his mistress. The jury agreed. He was found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder and received two consecutive life sentences. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.
But other than the nasty business with the trial, our lives have been great. Lexi and Debbie became a lot closer after that whole business with Zane, and it seems like a bit of a miracle that they don’t fight anymore the way they used to. Debbie cried for a week after Lexi moved out to go to college, even though she stayed local and has already been home to do laundry. She got into a great school, by the way. I don’t want to brag or anything, but it rhymes with Schmarvard.
Debbie’s just happy that Lexi has nothing to do with her old boyfriend, Zane. After his accident, I heard about charges against him—something to do with illegal photos he was passing around—and now that he’s out of the hospital, he may be in serious legal trouble. I saw him just once, at the grocery store with his mother, using a wheelchair that he operated with his mouth. I didn’t say hello.
And Izzy is kicking ass on the soccer team. As usual. Debbie and I attended every game last year.
Debbie is having some of her own career success too, and I’m really freaking proud of her. She’s been writing all these apps for her phone that we have been using for years, and one of them really blew up. It’s called Punish Your Husband, where a wife can assign some potential punishments (the most popular being cleaning the bathroom) to her husband for misdeeds like forgetting a birthday or anniversary. Wives apparently find it hilarious to come up with more and more creative punishments.
A couple of months ago, Debbie sold Punish Your Husband. I’m not gonna say how much it sold for, but it’s enough to pay for Lexi’s entire tuition at Schmarvard. Debbie has been working on some new projects, and she seems a lot happier overall.
Debbie explained to me that the file of threatening advice on her computer was a way for her to deal with the trauma of what happened to her. Now that she’s in therapy to help her deal with it, she revisited all those emails and rewrote her advice. Even though she’s no longer Dear Debbie, she answered every single one of those emails, and she’s been counseling a lot of women with their problems. What can I say? My wife gives great advice.
As for me and Debbie, that’s a complicated one.
We’ve been seeing a couples therapist. Obviously. We have both been keeping huge secrets from each other, and I feel simultaneously guilty that I didn’t tell her mine and guilty that she didn’t feel comfortable telling me hers. Debbie was sexually assaulted. The thought of it makes me so angry, I can’t even think straight. How could somebody do that to her? To anyone?
I’m glad she doesn’t know the name of the guy who did it, because if she did, I would be tempted to find him and beat him to death with my bare hands.
But we’re going to have an empty nest in only two years, and I want to make sure Debbie and I are okay. So every two weeks, we’ve been seeing the couples therapist. We never skip, no matter what. Nothing is more important than working on our marriage.
Just as I am popping my whole wheat bread out of the toaster, Debbie comes into our kitchen, dressed in her gym clothes. Our therapist said we need to get better at saying what we’re thinking, so I decide to practice that right now.
“Hey,” I say, “you look really sexy in those leggings.”
Debbie rolls her eyes, but she smiles. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mullen.” Her gaze flicks over my chest. “You even tied your own tie perfectly.”
“I watched a video online,” I say proudly.
“You? Watched a video online?”
I laugh because she has a point. It doesn’t sound like something I would do. But I’ve actually been spending a little bit more time on the internet, building our business. I’ve built up my company’s website, including putting my picture on it. I discovered that Jesse had been telling Harley that he was me to hide his identity, and he could only do that because there were zero pictures of me anywhere on the internet.
