Page 65 of Dear Debbie

“Could you keep an eye on your sister for me?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You’re the best.”

Izzy has always been the easier child. I fixed her little problem, and she was grateful. She didn’t run to her bedroom and sob for hours because Coach Pike got arrested.

I stop at Lexi’s door next. She still has her door closed, and I knock gently. She doesn’t answer, so I knock again.

“Go away,” Lexi mumbles. It sounds like her face is stuffed into a bunch of pillows, which it may very well be.

“I’m going out for a bit,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know.”

“Okay,” she says through the door. “Try not to kill anyone.”

I stifle a smile. She has no idea.

There is one very big problem I need to fix, and after I do that, maybe I’ll be able to sleep through the night again. After nearly half a century of life, I’ve realized that the only person who is truly looking out for my best interests is myself.

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The trip takes about an hour and change, driving up I-95 north through the South Shore. It will be longer on the way back, but if I can be finished before rush hour, it might not be too bad. If I get stuck in rush-hour traffic, it will take an eternity.

But I’m not in a hurry.

I haven’t made this trip in the entire time I’ve been living on the South Shore. We’re far enough from Cambridge that there’s no reason to. And although Cooper doesn’t know why I left MIT, he senses there’s a reason I don’t want to go back, and he has never suggested it.

But today, I am on the highway, headed in the direction of Cambridge. Except I’m not going to the MIT campus. I’m going to an off-campus house. One that I never thought I would return to.

Zeta Pi. The fraternity house that has haunted my dreams since that night during my sophomore year.

I’ve gotten so good at pretending that the night that ruined my life never happened. But over the last year, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s become an obsession for me. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

I need to do this. I will never feel at peace while this house is still standing.

It’s just after three o’clock when I pull up in front of the large house on the border between Brookline and Cambridge. There’s a parking spot just down the street, and I snag it before anyone else can or before I change my mind. I kill the engine and then sit there in the car, summoning up all my courage.

I’m braver than I was when I was nineteen. I’m stronger too. I can do this.

So I grab my purse and get out of the car.

The house looks different than I remember. It’s smaller, for starters. When I walked in there the night of that party all those years ago, it seemed gigantic. But now it doesn’t seem so much bigger than any other on the street. It’s made out of grayish-brown bricks with white columns lining the entrance. The doors are a stark white color, and there’s a sign over the entrance with the words Zeta Pi in calligraphy with the Greek letters beneath. There are five steps to the front door, and my legs feel heavy as I climb them.

When I reach the door, I press my index finger into the doorbell. The chimes ring throughout the house. And I wait.

The door is eventually opened by a clean-cut young man wearing a navy MIT T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His hair hangs a bit in his eyes the same way Hutch’s did on the night I can’t forget. I hate the kid instantly.

“Hey,” the boy says. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I say in a chipper voice. “My name is Nicole Quint, and I’m writing an article for the Cambridge Chronicle about MIT fraternities. Would it be okay if I came in to chat a bit?”

The Chronicle is a weekly paper that mostly does puff pieces and definitely no hard-hitting journalism. I had been slightly concerned the boy might quiz me on the article before letting me in, and I had prepared answers on the way over, but instead, his face creases into an eager smile.

“Sure!” He steps aside to let me enter the frat house. “Come on in!”

I smile up at him as I enter the house where I experienced the worst night of my life. “Thank you very much.”

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