Dear debbie, p.1
Dear Debbie, page 1
DEAR DEBBIE
FREIDA MCFADDEN
Copyright © 2026 by Freida McFadden
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Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons/Sourcebooks
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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LSC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my mother,
Who loves nothing better than a good revenge story
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Afterword
The Intruder
Also by Freida McFadden
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Even though my books are thrillers, a genre that traditionally has dark elements, I do my best to keep them as family friendly as I possibly can. You’re not going to come across any graphic scenes of violence or S-E-X. (Mostly because I know my family members will be reading!)
However, people have emotional responses to different things, and some of my books delve into more controversial topics. So for this reason, I created a list of content warnings for all my thrillers, which can be found linked off the top of my website:
freidamcfadden.com
This is a resource that can be used by readers who need to protect their mental health as well as for adults whose kids are reading my books. Please also keep in mind that in a few cases, these content warnings are major spoilers for twists that take place in the book.
With that in mind, I hope you safely enjoy this journey into my imagination!
1
FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE
Dear Debbie,
You always tell us in your fabulous column that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I believe you! But is my family ever willing to sit down and eat it? Not a chance.
Every morning it’s the same circus. My kids are searching for missing shoes or homework assignments that vanished overnight, and my husband can’t find his keys or reading glasses. Nobody is interested in taking five minutes to sit down at the kitchen table to enjoy the perfectly good breakfast that I just spent the last fifteen minutes cooking up.
I’ve tried everything! Quick meals, grab-and-go options, bribery (don’t ask!), but no matter what I do, my family always leaves the house with empty bellies!
How on earth am I supposed to get my family to take a few minutes to eat a nutritious breakfast before they dash out the door without so much as a goodbye? Help me, Debbie!
Hungry in Hingham
Dear Hungry in Hingham,
Indeed, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It boosts your energy levels and alertness, and if you don’t get a healthy breakfast, you can feel sluggish all day long. In children and adolescents, a nutritious breakfast can improve recall and focus for school.
If your family isn’t interested in having breakfast, try to probe to see what sorts of foods might tempt them to take those crucial extra 15 minutes in the morning. Some people prefer a bowl of cereal, others might want pancakes, and others might want a full breakfast with eggs and bacon and whole grain toast. Find out what your family likes best, and cater to those desires!
And if that doesn’t work, I would recommend installing a padlock on the front and back door of your house. First thing in the morning, lock both doors from the inside, and keep the key in your pocket. Let everyone know that they will not be leaving the house until they have consumed a healthy breakfast. If they seem hesitant, a simple threat to swallow the key unless they sit down and eat will surely move things along.
I have no doubt you will soon be enjoying a wonderful daily breakfast with your family!
Debbie
2
DEBBIE
I have been forbidden to speak to my daughter Lexi in the morning.
Lexi imposed this rule around when she started high school, and now that she is a senior, it remains rigidly in place. The rule was implemented when Lexi decided she didn’t like it when I dared to ask her “How are you?” first thing in the morning, and she simply didn’t “feel like talking right now, my God, Mom.”
So midway through freshman year, Lexi officially announced that I was no longer permitted to speak to her during early morning hours. And if I attempt any form of communication—verbal or nonverbal—she will snap at me and say, “What did I tell you?” Or possibly worse, glare at me with that look.
You know what look I mean. At least if you have teenagers, you know.
So when Lexi marches into our kitchen on this Wednesday morning, I don’t say a word. I just keep eating my bowl of cornflakes—the kind with extra fiber. (Now that I’m in my forties, anything that has a lot of fiber is an auto buy.) It’s easy to remember not to talk to Lexi, because she has a pair of giant headphones covering her ears. She’s always wearing those headphones. It’s possible they have fused with the temporal bones of her skull.
Lexi has her hair in a messy ponytail that looks as though she tied it last night or perhaps even several days ago and hasn’t gotten around to adjusting it. She’s wearing an oversize hoodie, which looks like something one might sleep in, and that impression is not helped by the fact that she’s wearing plaid pajama pants. It’s not pajama day at school or anything. This is what kids wear now. I find it distasteful, but on the other hand, I’m also jealous. I wish I could wear pajama pants every day.
Between my two kids, Lexi is the one who looks like me—a fact I’m sure is terribly embarrassing to her. She has the same delicate bone structure in her face and a similar dark shade to her slightly wavy hair. Like me, schoolwork comes easy to her, which is why she’s taking four AP classes this year and a number theory class because she already took AP Calculus BC last year.
Like me, she might be a little too smart for her own good.
Lexi doesn’t so much as glance at me as she makes a beeline for the refrigerator, although she casts a derisive look at the cans I have stacked on the kitchen counter for the canned food drive. Everything I do is a combination of embarrassing and aggravating. However, my most unforgivable crime of all was naming her Alexa. In my defense, how was I supposed to know Alexa would become a thing?
Lexi casts a look over her shoulder and does a double take when she sees me. She’s itching to comment, but that would break her eternal vow of silence. The internal struggle is real.
Finally, I break her. It’s the lipstick—I never wear lipstick.
“What are you so dressed up for, Mom?” she wants to know.
I
“The photographers from Home Gardening are coming today,” I remind her. “They’re taking pictures of the yard.”
It was an honor to be chosen by the magazine for this particular spread. As a stay-at-home mother to two girls, there have been times when my life has felt a bit…well, empty. I’m proud of my daughters, but I wanted to be proud of something that was all my own. This photo shoot gave me a nice boost to my confidence. I work hard on my garden.
There have been times when I felt that if I didn’t have my flowers, I wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed in the morning.
“I didn’t know that,” Lexi says, even though I mentioned it dozens of times. I don’t point out the irony that if I had forgotten something she told me only yesterday, she would be lambasting me at this very moment. “Well, good luck.”
That was a nice thing to say. And another miracle has occurred: my seventeen-year-old is now speaking to me in the morning. It feels like some sort of wacky, wonderful dream. Dare I hope the difficult teenage years might be coming to a close?
“Thank you,” I say cautiously, not wanting to do anything to disturb the peace.
Then Lexi wrinkles her nose. “You’re not really going to bring all these cans to our school today, are you? You’re going to look like a garbage woman.”
Okay, maybe the difficult years aren’t behind us quite yet.
Before I can come up with a suitable response to my daughter’s criticism of me collecting food for those who need it, my other daughter, Isabel, pops into the kitchen. It’s probably for the best, because she wouldn’t have liked whatever I said.
Izzy is a sophomore at Hingham Prep, two years below her sister. While Lexi reminds me disturbingly of myself, Izzy is much more like her father. She has his lighter brown hair, earnest grin, and solid build. And like him, she’s happy-go-lucky.
Unlike me and Lexi, Izzy has always been very athletic. I have hypothesized the endorphins might make her more pleasant than her sister. That’s my running theory anyway. If I didn’t force myself to go to the gym several times a week, I would murder everyone on my block.
“Hey, Mom.” Izzy grabs an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter. “Gotta run. The bus will be here in a minute.”
“That’s all you’re eating for breakfast?” I protest.
“Mom, I gotta go.”
In life and motherhood, especially motherhood of teenagers, you have to pick your battles. “Okay, I love you,” I call out. “I’ll pick you up after soccer.”
Izzy hesitates, her high ponytail swinging slightly behind her head as she stands there, seeming to debate her next words. She stuffs the apple into the pocket of her hoodie. “That’s okay,” she finally says. “I’ll take the bus home.”
“But wait.” As I rise quickly to my feet, my bowl of cereal tips over enough that some milk splashes on the kitchen table. It doesn’t spill on my dress at least. “The school bus won’t be around after soccer is over. I can get you.”
Izzy doesn’t reply.
“It’s no problem at all!” I assure her, trying not to think of the days when I’d pick Izzy up at day care and she’d run to me so fast and hard that she’d nearly knock me off my feet.
I’m not sure how long Izzy would have stood there staring at me with her hands shoved into her pockets if Lexi hadn’t blurted out, “For God’s sake, just tell her, Iz.”
I look between both girls. I hate it when they share secrets, although it’s better than when they’re fighting. “Tell me what?”
Izzy still doesn’t say anything.
Lexi lets out an exaggerated sigh and says, “She got kicked off the soccer team.”
“Lexi!” Izzy hisses, her face turning pink.
“What?”
Okay, this is flat out ridiculous. Izzy has been playing soccer since she was in kindergarten. She could dribble that soccer ball in her sleep. How could she have gotten kicked off the team? She’s one of the best sophomores they have. Hell, she’s one of the best players they have.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why were you kicked off the team?”
Izzy won’t meet my eyes. “Mom…”
This has got to be some sort of mistake. There’s no other explanation. “I’m going to give Coach Pike a call.”
“Mom, no.” Her eyes widen in panic. “I have to go now. Don’t call Coach Pike.”
“Izzy…”
“Please don’t call him.” Her eyes are full of desperation. “Promise me you won’t call him, Mom.”
I don’t want her to miss the bus. I can’t afford to drive her right now, since I need to be here for the photo shoot. But she’s not going to budge until I agree, so I finally spit out, “I promise.”
I promise I won’t call him. But I didn’t promise I won’t go to his office and ask him what the hell he was thinking when he cut my daughter from the team.
Izzy gives me one last look, and then she dashes out the door. That girl is always running. She’s an amazing soccer player. I don’t know what happened to get her kicked off the team, but I’m determined to get to the bottom of it.
I turn my attention to my older daughter, who has picked up a can of creamed corn and is reading the label with a sour expression on her face, like the ingredients have personally offended her.
“Do you know what happened?” I ask Lexi.
“Oh my God, Mom, no, I don’t.” Lexi grunts. “Can you please stop asking, like, a million times?”
This is the first time I asked her, but whatever. “You haven’t heard anything at all?”
“No.” Lexi gives me a seething look but then adds, “She’s better off ditching the team anyway. Coach Pike is such a perv.”
“A perv?”
She rolls her eyes, irritated that she has to take the time to explain every little thing to me. “My friend Mira was on the soccer team, and she said he was always, like, ‘accidentally’ walking into the locker room when the girls were changing. He’d say sorry and leave right away, but…well, that doesn’t sound like an accident to me.”
He did what?
The cereal sticks in my throat as I contemplate this new revelation. Izzy never said anything like that, but I know Lexi’s friend Mira, and she’s not the type of girl who makes up stories. Is it possible that it’s true? And if it is, do I even want Izzy on the soccer team?
“Ugh, could you quit it, Mom?” Lexi says irritably.
I force myself to swallow the mouthful of cereal. “Quit what?”
“Chewing,” she says.
“Chewing?” I repeat incredulously.
“The way you chew…it’s so loud. Like, nobody else in the world chews that loudly. Trust me—it’s super weird. They can probably hear it next door.”
Nobody has ever criticized the volume of my mastication before. For a moment, I’m at a loss. “Sorry. I’ll try to chew more quietly.”
“It’s so loud,” she reiterates. “You’re always chewing, and it’s, like, so annoying.”
I am momentarily distracted from my thoughts of Coach Pike by the more immediate issue of what on earth happened to my relationship with my firstborn. I remember a time when I used to make pancakes for Lexi in the morning. I would go all out. I formed a smiley face on each individual one using blueberries or, if it was a special day, chocolate chips. When Lexi saw those smiley face pancakes (especially the chocolate chip ones), her eyes would light up. She would eat all the blueberries or chocolate chips first, and then she would smother the stack in maple syrup. After a few bites, she would look up at me with a sticky, happy smile. You make the bestest pancakes in the world, Mommy!
I take another bite of my cereal, wondering if there’s any activity I could suggest we do together. Maybe a shopping trip. Lexi has always loved to go shopping, even when she was little, and now she still loves clothes. Finding the clothes she likes might be a challenge though.
Maybe I could offer to take her to a pajama store. Is there such a thing? If there isn’t, they should make one. It’s a million-dollar idea.
A car horn blasts from outside the house, loud enough that both of us startle. I can’t make my daughter smile anymore, but that horn does the job. It’s her boyfriend, Zane, who recently turned eighteen and got his full license and now can drive her to school every single day.
