Page 65 of Such a Good Wife

“Yeah,” she agrees.

She trusts me, and I can’t let one more person in my life down. This has to work.

***

27

I HAVE WAITED FOR the mailman for the last three days since I dropped Lacy off from the hospital, peering through the living room curtains between one and three, his usual times, just to make certain that the package I’m waiting for doesn’t get dangerously intercepted by the kids or Collin.

At the library, right after dropping Lacy off and agreeing to our plan, I went again to use the computer anonymously. Even on a public computer, I didn’t want to chance an extensive search for which kind of drugs will knock someone unconscious, or leave a trail of clicks from shady websites, so I typed in a name I’d heard before on an episode of Dateline: flunitrazepam. Tasteless, dissolves easily in a drink, takes thirty minutes to knock someone on their ass.

Cinnamon told me to “get him.” I knew she would help, so I got her number from Lacy. The girls weren’t exactly covert about their cocaine use, so I wondered if she might know where to get other things. After she explained to me three times what the dark web was, she gave up and gave me instructions detailing how to order what I wanted online.

It was easier than I expected. The only real hassle was having to first go and buy a prepaid debit card with cash so there wouldn’t be a trail. And if the drugs are discovered, I can always claim they’d gone to the wrong house. After all, the sender refused to put my name on the envelope—it will say only “Current Resident.” I didn’t even give a name at all, just an address, and the service promised the utmost discretion. This is great news for me, but incredibly alarming to know how easy it is for all the Joes of the world to obtain and use these roofies.

A few days later, after the mailman has dropped a handful of envelopes into the metal box on the front porch, I wait until he’s walking up the Millers’ front stoop and out of sight before I open the door and flip through the pile to find a surprisingly tiny package resting between a piece of junk mail and a utility bill. As promised, it says only “Current Resident.” I leave the rest of the mail in the box and go inside. I open the package carefully and drop the tablets into my palm, then slip them inside the zipper pocket in my wallet. They just fit inside the narrow, otherwise useless little pocket.

I call to tell Lacy we’re set.

“It’s about time,” she complains on the other end of the line. “He sent flowers and won’t stop calling. I can only get him to let me go to his place when he’s still in his apology phase, so we should do it tonight.”

“Tonight. Okay.”

“Let me text him back and tell him I’ll stop by if he wants, but that I can’t stay long. He should say yes, the way he is right now, but I can’t be sure. If he says to come over, I’ll just text you a time, and we can meet beforehand.”

“Okay, sounds good. You sure about this? I don’t want you to feel—” But Lacy cuts me off.

“I’m sure. Gotta go.” She hangs up, and I wait. I pace the kitchen, then take out a bottle of Lysol and spray a mist across the countertop and scrub at it with a scouring pad, trying to keep myself occupied. I wonder how it’s possible that the person guilty of a murder could be the one investigating it. Does he get his pick of who he decides to pin it on? If that’s really the situation, and he could plant evidence and find someone who would be a perfect candidate to blame, I wonder if it’s been decided that that someone is me.

He’s always liked me. He’s even wanted me. Maybe just in the past, but I have come to learn that he gets what he wants, and I rejected him once. A long time ago. Too long ago for this to be revenge, but the thought flits across my mind, and his current flirtations are not lost on me.

Two hours later, the counters sparkle and I’ve even pulled the stainless-steel garbage can out on the front lawn to power wash before I finally get the text back that says, 8 PM. I text back to meet in the parking lot of a Shell station a block away before she goes in. It’s set.

I need to attend a parent-teacher conference at Ben’s school at six while Collin picks Rachel up from JV basketball practice, her new obsession since she decided she hates dance. Ben is chatting away in the backseat after the conference, and I give intermittent “oh, reallys” now and then, only partly listening. We stop for takeout at a Mediterranean grill and get home in just enough time for me to drop off dinner and head out to meet Lacy.

“Go wash up, bud,” I say to Ben’s back, but he’s already halfway up the stairs, knowing the drill. The house is eerily quiet.

“Anyone home?” I call, but I saw Collin’s car, so I know they’re here. Collin is standing at the kitchen counter when I round the corner and put the take-out bags down.

“Hey. It’s quiet in here. Where’s Rach?” I ask, used to the TV blaring and kids perpetually arguing or asking for something. At the very least, blaring music from their rooms at this hour. His face looks fatigued, his eyes dark.

“Rachel’s in her room.”

“Why? She okay?”

“Yeah, she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and she’s skipping dinner, or so she loudly announced.”

“What happened? Wha—”

“I don’t know, like I said, she’s not talking to anyone, but I can only guess it has something to do with the fact that our daughter became a woman today...so I hear.”

I don’t quite absorb it at first because it’s such an odd thing to hear Collin say.

“Uhhh. What?” I ask, daftly.

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

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