Page 4 of Dear Debbie

My thoughts about the boy driving the piece of junk are even less charitable.

I catch a glimpse of Zane as he pulls onto the road in front of my house. He has long, shaggy hair and is skinny as a rail, even though the times he has been in my house, he has devoured a small truckload of food. If half of my refrigerator has been emptied, it means Zane has been by for a visit. Especially if the refrigerator has been left slightly ajar and the toilet seat is up. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure he vapes. I don’t even entirely know what vaping is, but I know I don’t want my daughter dating a boy who does it. Not that I have a choice.

But most of all, I don’t like the way he looks at Lexi. There’s something in his expression that makes me uneasy. It’s something I’ve seen before—a memory that I can’t ever block out.

Lexi and Zane have been dating for about four months, and I was ready for it to be over three and a half months ago.

But I can’t forbid her to date him. She is seventeen years old, and that won’t go well. If I tell her not to see him, she’ll only see him…harder. No, the smart thing to do is to wait this out. She’s a smart girl, and she’ll wise up. Eventually, Zane will be gone.

And if not, well, I intend to protect my daughter. Both of them. Whether they like it or not.

I am about to return to the kitchen but stop when I notice another flash of movement out the window. It’s my neighbor Brett Carlson, walking down the driveway that separates our houses. Actually, he’s not so much walking as stomping. He’s making his way toward our front door. In another minute, he’s going to be pounding on it.

This day is about to get interesting.

3

Even though I’m standing only a few feet away from the door, I don’t open it right away. I give Brett a chance to ring the doorbell. Repeatedly. Then, as predicted, the pounding starts.

“Open up!” he shouts as he slams his fists uselessly against our door. “Right this minute!”

What a drama queen.

Brett Carlson moved into our neighborhood about a year ago. I know most of our neighbors fairly well, but I barely know Brett. All I know is that he works in finance, drives a sports car much too fast, and blasts music in his home office while he’s working, loud enough to bother the whole neighborhood. He always seems to manage to turn it down just before the police arrive for noise complaints.

Taking my time, I open the door. But before I do, I snatch the box cutter that we keep in a cabinet in the foyer and slip it into the small pocket in the skirt of my dress. Just in case.

Brett is standing on my front porch, his hands balled into fists, his whole face a deep scarlet. He’s glaring at me with menacing eyes. I keep the fingers of my right hand wrapped around the box cutter I’ve tucked away.

“Good morning, Brett!” I say cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

“I know what you did,” he hisses at me. “I know what you did, Debbie! And you’re not going to get away with it!”

I blink at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What on earth do you think I did?”

“I know it was you!” All the veins in Brett’s neck are standing out. “You think after all those noise complaints, I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“Honestly,” I say, “I don’t know what you mean, Brett.”

“My fuse box,” he clarifies. “You went into my basement and snapped off the switch for my office. I’ve got no power in that room. This is going to cost me thousands of dollars to fix!”

I clasp a hand to my chest. “Oh my!”

“Oh my,” Brett repeats mockingly. “You are so full of shit. You hate how loud I play my music, so you cut the power.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I know you’re the one who did it. And you’re going to pay for it, one way or another.”

He looks like he is attempting to shoulder his way inside the house to continue the conversation. I block his entrance, ready to pull out that box cutter if I need to. It won’t come to that though. Brett is all talk.

“I’m so sorry about what happened to your fuse box, Brett.” I furrow my brow. “But I swear it wasn’t me. I barely even know how to use our own! All that wiring stuff…it’s just a big mystery to me. Ask Cooper. He always resets the breakers.”

Brett is still glaring at me, unconvinced. “I know it was you.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Proof?”

I smile politely. “It’s a simple question, Brett.”

“I don’t need proof,” he snaps. “I know it was you.”