Page 83 of Dear Debbie

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?