Page 5 of Dear Debbie

I laugh, which only seems to infuriate him. “This is so preposterous. How would I even get into your basement?”

He pauses for only a split second to consider this. “I had a key hidden under the lantern in the backyard. You must’ve figured out it was there.”

It’s true that there are certain naive people who hide the keys to their front door in an easily found location: under a rock, in a flowerpot, or even under the welcome mat. It’s like sending an engraved invitation to burglars. When we visit friends, Cooper and I play a little game where I have to guess where the spare key is hidden before we reach the front door. It always makes him laugh. When we recently visited one of his coworkers for dinner, I informed him their spare key was hidden under a garden gnome by the door. When we lifted it up, sure enough, there it was. I have a knack for these kinds of things.

“So you’re saying,” I begin, “that I found this key that you hid in your backyard, and then I broke into your house in the middle of the night and somehow snapped a switch in your fuse box? I’m just a housewife, Brett. You really think I did all that?”

For the first time since Brett showed up, there’s a twinge of uncertainty on his face.

“You know,” I say, “it was probably some teenagers. I saw some surly-looking boys hanging around on the street yesterday evening. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got it in their heads to stir up some trouble.”

That’s not entirely a lie. Zane is always hanging around here, and he’s about as surly as they come.

“I still think it was you.” Brett glares at me from the front porch, although some of the conviction behind his words has subsided. “I might not have any proof, but I’m putting up a camera as soon as I get this fixed.”

“Wonderful idea!” I chirp. “Security cameras are an excellent way to keep your home safe.”

Brett looks like he wants to strangle me with his bare hands. I nearly reach for the box cutter again, but then I stop myself. Instead, I smile up at my neighbor.

“I sure hope they catch the hooligan who did this to you,” I say.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I’m sure you do.”

With those words, he turns around and storms down the porch steps, casting seething looks over his shoulder the entire time.

4

My phone is ringing in the kitchen.

Despite the fact that I frequently scold the children for having their phones out at the dinner table, my phone is admittedly never far from me either. It is, in fact, right next to my cereal bowl on the kitchen table. At first, I assume it’s the magazine with some last-minute instructions for the photo shoot. But as I return to the kitchen, I see the name Garrett Meers flashing on the screen.

My boss.

Although I sometimes refer to myself as a stay-at-home mother, I actually do work part-time at a local family-oriented newspaper called the Hingham Household, writing an advice column called Dear Debbie. It’s sort of like Dear Abby, except I wrote it, so it’s Debbie instead of Abby. Get it? People from all over Hingham send in questions, seeking the fruits of my wisdom. I do my best.

People tell me they love my column, and even though it doesn’t pay that much, I enjoy it. Of course, when I started college at MIT nearly thirty years ago, majoring in computer science, I would never have believed my primary employment would be as a newspaper advice columnist. My high school computer science teacher told me I’d be the next Bill Gates.

Suffice it to say, I’m not the next Bill Gates. Far from it. In fact, I dropped out of MIT during the second semester of my sophomore year.

I still tinker in programming though. I’ve actually created some apps for the smartphone, although nobody uses them except for our immediate family. The one I’m most proud of is an app called Findly, which is a highly accurate tracker of friends and family. Izzy and Lexi both have Findly installed on their phones, which means that not only do I know where they are, but I’m also able to download a history of their prior locations. My children are safer when I know where they are.

I’ve got a tracker on my husband’s phone too. With his permission, of course.

My phone is still ringing, so I snatch it off the kitchen table, swiping to take the call. The photographers won’t be here for nearly an hour, and Garrett never wants to talk for very long. As he always says, he’s “a busy man.”

“Hello, Debbie,” he says. “I’m so glad I caught you.”

“Uh-huh.” I settle back down in my seat. Garrett took over the paper two years ago, and he’s not my favorite person in the world. I avoid him as much as possible. “What’s up?”

“Actually,” he says, “do you think you could stop by the office today?”

I frown at his unusual request. I usually email him my articles, and my paychecks are direct deposited. “Today? What time?”

“As soon as possible.”

I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m feeling anxious over this photo shoot already, and a mystery meeting with my boss is the last thing I need to think about. “Sure. I’ll come this afternoon. Around two?”

“Sounds good, Debbie. I’ll see you then.”