The Housewife(20)

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sigh. “I always get myself into these stupid situations.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I’ll figure something out.”

She digs into her purse and pulls out a fifty. “Here.”

I stare at the note. “What for?”

She grabs my hand and presses the money into my palm. “You shouldn’t have to hitchhike home. That’s ridiculous and dangerous. You could get picked up by a serial killer.”

I laugh. “Imagine that! A serial killer getting picked up by a—”

She tilts her head.

“I mean, someone like me, getting picked up by a serial killer! Or anyone getting picked up by a serial killer, really. Imagine that!”

She smiles, but with the air of someone who didn’t get the joke and is not that interested in finding out.

I stare at the note. “You really mean to give me fifty dollars?”

“Of course. Us girls have to stick together, right?”

“I’m not going to say no, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“There’s no need,” she says.

“No, I insist. I can’t accept it if I can’t pay it back. Tell me your number. I’ll remember it.”

“I tell you what…” She pulls out her phone. “Oh God. I didn’t realize the time. I’m running late. What’s your number? I’ll text you mine.”

I reel it off. She shoves the phone in her belt bag and extends her hand. “I’m Erin. ”

“Jodie.”

“Sorry, I have to run,” she says, opening the door.

“No problem. Don’t forget to text me your number,” I say.

“I will. Take care.”





13





All I can think about the whole way home is Deborah going to the clinic I just visited. Why would Deb go there? Did she actually go there? Or just write the address down for some reason? People write down addresses all the time and it means nothing. Maybe she thought she’d go there one day.

Except it was one day before Roy killed her, so…no. There’s something there. I can feel it.

Roy is already home when I get there. I find him in his office, focusing on his laptop.

“You’re home early, that’s nice,” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I get you a drink? I got my hair done. Do you like this dress? I got your suit from the dry cleaners. Did you have a good day?”

I do that a lot, say things one after another without a thread to link them. My mother used to say, if I would just shut up, then it wouldn’t happen.

He looks up. “A haircut? Yes. So you have. Very nice. A drink would be good, thank you.”

“Coming right up.”

I go upstairs first, to make sure my purse is here, and it is. Right where I left it.

I go back downstairs and prepare a drink for Roy. Getting Roy’s drink—Scotch and soda—is something I do every day. I like to choose the perfect glass—cut glass tumbler in this case—and nice, chunky ice cubes, not those small ones that melt as soon as they hit the liquid. I measure the amount of Scotch into a small silver thumb cup I bought especially for this. Then I grab the bottle of soda from the refrigerator. When I turn around, I notice the tall cupboard door is ajar. I’m about to close it when I notice something else. The packet of Oreos is gone.

I open the door wide and touch the items on Deb’s snack shelf. No doubt about it, the packet of Oreos was there yesterday, and now, it’s gone. And I don’t know why that upsets me, except that I only just found out that this was Deb’s special indulgent shelf, and I wanted to keep it just the way it was.

And now, the Oreos are gone.

Just then, Marie walks in. She doesn’t speak to me. She never does, unless she has something specific to say. Communicating is done on a strictly need-to-know basis with Marie.

“Did you take the Oreos?” I blurt.

She is rummaging through the cutlery drawer. She turns around. “I’m sorry? ”

I point to the shelf. “The packet of Oreos? And it’s fine, of course. You can take whatever you like, I’m just wondering, that’s all, because yesterday—”

“I’m diabetic,” she says.

“Really?”

“Yes. I couldn’t eat a chocolate cookie. It would send my blood sugar haywire. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” I say. “I didn’t know you were diabetic. I wish I’d known.”

“Why?”

“Because I would make sure to cook things that you can comfortably eat. Especially desserts. I’m very good at making desserts, you know. Everyone says so. I’m sure there’s something I can make that you could eat. Something delicious.”

She blinks at me. “Was there anything else?”

I swallow a sigh. “No, that was it. Thank you, Marie.”

“It’s Meeerrie.”





I bring Roy his drink. “Roy?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you take the packet of Oreos from the kitchen?”

He looks up. “What packet of what?”