I moved to the black bin and slipped my hand into a doggie bag. The lid made a scraping sound as I eased it up. My pulse spiked. I glanced at the second-floor windows. Still dark, luckily.
I inventoried the trash: bagged kitchen waste, a broken candle, and paper towels soaked with something reddish. Ketchup, maybe. Then I saw it. Half-buried along the side, a plastic orange cylinder bright against dark coffee grounds.
A prescription bottle.
I reached inside, pinched it by the cap, and lifted it into the glow of my phone's flashlight, keeping the light shielded low against my leg.
LORAZEPAM 3 MG
Patient: AUGUST, BROOKE
Prescriber: DR. SARAH CHEN
I sucked in my breath. Why was Brooke's medication in Whitney's trash? Lorazepam was a benzo, a downer, a sedative used for insomnia, anxiety, and panic attacks. Otherwise known as sleeping pills.
Before I could overthink it, I slid the bottle into the doggie bag and knotted it tightly. It was in the trash, so it wasn't stealing. I tucked it into my purse.
A dog barked somewhere down the street. My heart jackhammered. I jerked upright, scanning the dark yards.
In front of me, one of the two double-car garage doors rattled to life.
I froze. Yellow light flooded the driveway. The mechanical hum grew louder as the door lifted to expose the gleaming black Mercedes parked inside the garage. Whitney's husband Graham was about to leave for his executive job at Whirlpool.
Apollo's collar jangled. He started for the car. I yanked his leash,dragging him as close to me as I could, and ducked behind the recycling bin. I crouched low, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The engine started with a purr. Headlights swept across the pavement mere inches from my feet.
Eager to make a new friend, Apollo strained at his collar and stuck his big head past the recycling bin.
"Apollo!" I whispered. "Come on, get back!"
To my horror, I realized my elbow and half my leg stuck out past the bins.
The Mercedes backed out.
It was too late to move. I froze.
Through the gap between the bins, I could see Graham's shiny blond head behind the wheel. He was dressed in a charcoal suit and was already talking on his Bluetooth device, his hand making a chopping gesture at the air as if to emphasize a point. Business at 5:58 a.m.
My breath caught in my throat. If I could see him, Graham could see me. And Apollo. If he glanced at his trash and recycling bins or his mailbox, I was toast.
The car rolled past me. He never glanced toward the bins. Never looked left or right. Whitney always complained he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to anything unless it was business, tennis, or sex, in that order.
The taillights flared red at the end of the driveway. The Mercedes turned and headed down the street as the garage door descended with a mechanical whine.
I remained crouched for two full minutes. My right leg cramped. Finally, I stood on unsteady legs and shook it out. "Thanks for nothing, Apollo."
Apollo happily licked my hand. His tail wagged with enthusiasm, ready for the next game.
I pulled the dog toward the next house, continuing north to Rowan's. The big house loomed dark, its wraparound deck empty. The bins sat centered exactly at the edge of the driveway.
I lifted the recycling lid. Yogurt containers rinsed clean, kombucha bottles, and a collapsed Amazon box. In thetrash, coffee grounds, vegetable peels, and a cracked mug. Everything ordinary, typical, expected.
I closed the lid and doubled back on Wyld Wood Lane, passing Whitney's again until I reached Camille's. The indigo sky was starting to lighten. Whitney and Peyton often went jogging together at 6:30 a.m. for some God-forsaken reason, so I was running out of time.
In front of Camille's house, I paused. If Camille found out what I was doing, she might drop us.
I did it anyway. I was too committed now.
