Chapter 25
DEBBIE
I wake up at two in the morning, my heart pounding.
I had considered setting an alarm, but I didn’t want to risk waking Cooper.
Thankfully, he is still asleep, snoring softly beside me in bed.
In the light of the moon, he looks much younger.
He looks just like he did when we first met all those years ago.
I still remember how happy he seemed when I agreed to go out with him, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
Cooper doesn’t stir as I climb out of bed. He is generally a sound sleeper, but it helps that I put some opium in the diet soda that I poured him when we were eating the french fries. The colorful flowers in my garden look a lot like windflowers, but that’s not what they are.
Yes, I grow opium poppies in my garden.
Technically, it’s not illegal to grow them in your own backyard.
It’s only when the quantity reaches the level of acres and you’re manufacturing opium to sell to others that it becomes problematic.
I suspect the neighbors would frown on it, and God knows what Zane would do if he knew.
So I tell everyone that they’re windflowers.
Of course, I don’t just grow opium poppies.
Really, they’re only a small part of my garden.
I’m also partial to lantana with their bright, tropical colors as well as hibiscus flowers with the bright bold red pop.
I also have a small patch of dark red Carapichea ipecacuanha berries, which is what they make syrup of ipecac from. It’s quite a powerful emetic.
I started harvesting the opium out of curiosity.
What can I say? I get bored easily, especially now that the kids are teenagers and don’t need me every moment of the day.
I watched a video about it online, which taught me what to do.
You make vertical cuts in the poppy pod in order to “bleed” out the opium.
I’ve been doing it for years now, and I’ve accumulated quite the little stash.
I suppose this is what happens when somebody has an IQ of 178 and no job except for writing a weekly advice column. I do write those apps for our phones, but I’ve become so quick at it, they don’t take much work anymore. My brain is screaming for stimulation.
Cooper continues to snore as I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a black sweater. I tie my hair back in a bun to keep it out of my face and creep downstairs to the first floor. I have quite a lot to do tonight and no time to waste.
The first thing I do is grab the three refill packs for the Japanese beetle traps. And then I enter our garage, which is where we keep the shovel that Cooper uses to dig us out during the winter when it snows. Armed with both, I leave the house.
The weather is a bit cool for the sweater I have on. Really, it’s more like jacket weather, but I expect after digging a bit, I’ll have worked up more of a sweat. Anyway, this won’t take long.
I walk down the block to the bottom of the hill where Jo Dolan lives.
I pass Rochelle’s house on the way, which is silent and dark like everyone else’s house.
I took a stroll by her property at around eight o’clock this evening, and there was no sign of a party.
I suspect Rochelle was still vomiting by then.
After a few minutes, I reach Jo’s garden. Under the cloak of darkness, the roses look almost ominous. They look like they might come to life and kill me at any moment. Especially if they knew what I’m about to do to them.
But I’m not too worried about killer plants.
What I am worried about is cameras, but I don’t see any of those.
I’m fairly sure that Jo isn’t the sort of person who mounts cameras on her property.
She really ought to though. It took me less than five minutes to install our door cameras—one in front and one in back—and install the software on my phone to monitor them at all times.
It’s a good source of security, and it’s also a great way to spy on my older daughter when she’s on the porch with her boyfriend.
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.