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She motions behind her. “Sleeping. Do you think it’s really the police? No cap, I’ve totes seen this on the news. Murderers dress up like police and get inside their house and chop our heads off.”
Not only do I not understand half of what she said, it’s crossed my mind already too, but I have to keep her calm. “It’s fine. I’ll ask for a badge. I won’t let them in.”
I crack the door open, cool air hitting my face and the fresh smell of rain. I hadn’t realized it started raining again. My eyes move from the driveway to the men before me. Drawing in a quick breath, I clear my throat. “Hello?”
The officer on the left speaks first and shows me his badge. “Hello, ma’am. I’m officer Thompson and this is Detective Sharp.” Officer Thompson’s eyes shift to Emmie behind me. “Can we come inside for a moment?”
“Uh, well.” My heart thumps harder against my breastbone. I try really hard to remember every horror movie I’ve ever seen. Hello, it’s Friday the thirteenth. No way I want to die like this at the hands of police officers.
“No, you can’t come in.” Beside me now, Emmie clears her throat. “Show us your badges.”
“Yes, here.” They both flash their badges, drops of rain on their dark jackets.
I focus on the rain and the wind outside. I drop my eyes to our front porch, the pebble stone path leading up to our door, and it’s as if I’m watching myself from a distance, frozen in a moment I can’t escape, and knowing what comes next will forever change my life.
Deep inside, I know what this is about, but I’m too scared to say anything or allow myself to crumble.
“These guys are sus,” Emmie whispers in my ear, pulling on my shoulder.
I stare at her, my body sagging with the weight of her attached to my side. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Suspicious.” She hands me her phone. “Call the police and ask if they’re real. Their badges could be fake.”
I have to admit, Emmie’s making me even more paranoid. “I’m sure they’re not. They came in a patrol car,” I whisper back, trying to force a smile at the officers who can clearly hear everything we’re saying.
“Yes, come in.” I motion them forward, their boots squeaking against the tile entry of our home. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?” Dumbass. They can’t drink. “Juice box?”
“No, thank you,” they reply, removing their shoes at the door.
Wow. Gentlemen even.
“What’s this about?”
They take a seat on our couch in the formal living room we never sit in. On the couch Collin’s mom picked out and I can’t stand. It’s bland. White. Boring. I stare at them, waiting for what I think they’re about to tell me.
Do you have those moments when you’re looking at someone, and you know they’re talking, their mouth is moving, forming words, but you have no idea what they’re saying?
I’ve been there. No, no… I’m actually there right now. His mouth is moving, isn’t it? Or am I imagining that too?
Officer Sharp’s eyes move to Emmie. “Can we have a moment alone with your mother?”
Emmie does that thing where it looks like her head is about to snap off. “No. I’m not leaving her alone with you two.” And then she gives them the two-fingered “I’m watching you” point.
“She’s fine. She’s our babysitter.”
“Mrs. Greyson?” Officer Thompson clears his throat. “Are you Collin Greyson’s wife, Sydney Greyson?”
Fear hits me in the chest, a hard punch right to my heart. I nod. It’s all I can do, because like I said, I know what’s coming next. Emmie sits next to me, her sudden silence evident of the shift in the air. It’s quiet, the only sound is the boom of my heart in my ears.
Leaning forward, his elbows rest on his knees. “Your husband, Collin, was involved in a car accident tonight… and unfortunately, he passed away at the scene.”
At first, I don’t understand what he said. It’s not until Emmie gasps, her hand on mine.
The words… I focus on them for a moment while I attempt to process the meaning behind them.
Collin. My Collin? My husband.
My stomach feels like it’s been drop-kicked by a horse. It hits me like a brick to my chest even before they give me the news. In the movies, this is where the Lord Huron song begins to play. Or the music softens, and the shot blurs, unable to catch the true significance of one’s life being altered by a four-letter word.