Fourteen Hundred Dollars

At exactly seven o’clock in the morning, someone knocked on our front door.

Not a regular knock. Three hard raps. The kind that rattles the little window in the door.

I was standing at the kitchen counter in my bathrobe, pouring coffee into my husband’s travel mug. Ben had already left for work. He’s a lineman for the electric company and his shift starts at six-thirty. I was alone in the kitchen with the radio on low and the smell of toast.

The knock came again.

I set down the coffee pot.

Nobody knocks on our door at seven in the morning. Not in our neighborhood. Not on a Tuesday.

I hurried down the hallway, pulling my robe tighter, and opened the door.

Two police officers stood outside.

Their patrol car was parked at the curb. Black and white. Lights off. The engine was still running. I could see the exhaust curling up into the cold October air.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the taller officer said. “Are you Sarah Vance?”

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My stomach dropped.

You know that feeling. Every mother knows it. When you see a police officer on your doorstep and your brain runs through every person you love in about half a second.

Ben. Is it Ben? Was there an accident? A downed line? He works with live wires twenty feet in the air.

My mother in assisted living.

My sister in Tulsa.

Julian.

Julian.

He was upstairs. I’d heard him in the shower ten minutes ago.

He was upstairs. He was safe.

“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded strange. “I’m Sarah Vance. Is everything all right?”

“I’m Officer Daniels,” the taller one said. “This is Officer Cooper. We’d like to speak with you. And your son. Julian.”