After the strange spoon scene in the bathroom, spoons began to show up all over the place; in the laundry hamper, the toy box, the shoe box, in the dogs bed. I found one in between couch cushions and another lodged under the microwave stand. But just as quickly as I retrieved them, they’d be gone again. Was my perp starting to lose it? I sure hoped so, cause I knew the case was beginning to get to me.
I dreaded my late night ice cream craving. I stopped making soup and chilli all together. When the kids wanted to play ‘musical instruments’ I had to break out the plastic sporks for them to use as drum sticks. One night I dreamt I was a tiny ant in the silverware drawer. A giant hand reached in and grabbed the spoon I was sitting on. It then tried to crush me with a second spoon. I saw no one, but could hear a dark and menacing laugh as I was spooned to death. I woke up sweating and panting and shaking. My husband took my hand, “You have to give this up, Rachel. You’re in too deep. Let me buy you some new spoons and let’s get on with our lives before it consumes you!” He pleaded and pleaded, but even the love of a good man couldn’t convince me to stop. I was so close I could taste it. And then it happened.
The spoon thief made a mistake that busted the case wide open. I knew who it was. And I knew what I had to do.