There is a pause, then he drops a bomb.
“No one came into the studio. Do you hear me?”
I close my eyes, trying desperately to calm my racing heart.
“Of course, Christopher. I understand.”
He drags in a deep breath, loud enough I can hear it over the phone. “Good. They may come to speak with you as well. Remember what we talked about.” He pauses for a brief second, then drops his next bomb. “There’s nothing you can say or do that I won’t know about.”
The line goes dead and life as I know it implodes in my face.
I run upstairs, tripping over my own feet in my haste to make it to our bedroom. I head for the closet first and grab a step stool hidden on the floor under my hanging clothes.
Setting it up, I use it to reach a suitcase kept high on a shelf. I drag it down to the floor and rip it open. I take as many clothes as I can get my hands on and shove them into the open suitcase, not even looking at what I get and not caring either. I just need to get out of here.
Suddenly, the doorbell rings, and my heart stutters. It feels like it stops all together, and I can’t breathe for a minute. When I finally find air again, I’m nearly panting. I hyperventilate, thinking I’m having a full-blown panic attack.
The doorbell rings again, and I slam my eyes shut, trying to take a calming breath.
It’s not working!
Come on, Andrea. Get your shit together.
Trying again, the tightness in my chest loosens some, and I’m able to take more even breaths.That’s it, just a few more. I stand and straighten out my now wrinkled shirt and try to tame my hair.
I’ve been tugging on it endlessly while lying on the floor crying for God knows how long. I know I look like a mess, but as the doorbell rings one more time, I know I don’t have time to fix anything.
Heading out of our bedroom, I close the door behind me and walk down the hall and descend the stairs. I see someone through the frosted glass on the door, and my pulse spikes again.
Calm down, Andrea. You did nothing wrong. If it’s the police, tell them what you know. It’s going to be okay.
Taking one more deep breath and trying my hardest to calm my frantic heart, I open the door.
Standing on the porch is a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and dressed in business casual slacks and a dress shirt. On his waist is a handgun, and on the other side is a badge hanging from his belt, but he isn’t who I’m focused on. What takes me by surprise is my brother standing behind and slightly to the side of him.
Why in the hell is Andrew here?
I start to ask as much when the middle-aged man beats me to speaking.
“Hello, Ms. Shaw?” He extends his hand for me to shake.
I stand in my entryway, frozen, and staring at Andrew for a few seconds too long, until he clears his throat. I snap my eyes back to the unknown man and reach out to shake his hand.
“Yes, I’m Ms. Shaw, and you are?”
He shifts his weight from side to side, releasing my hand. “I’m Detective Monroe with the Sacramento Police Department and, of course, you know your brother. May we come in?”
Stepping back, I gesture with my hand for them to come in. “Sure, please come in. Andrew, what are you doing here?”
Both men move into the foyer, the detective moves towards the family room first. Andrew hangs back slightly in the foyer to answer my question.
“I got word that Detective Monroe was coming to talk to you this evening, and I wanted to be present in case you needed me,” he replies.
I furrow my eyebrows, emotionally spent, and confused. “That’s great, and I appreciate that, but how did you even know they were coming?”
Andrew shifts uncomfortably. “Well, Christopher called me. Plus, I still talk to quite a few of the guys working the precinct.”
I tilt my head to the side. His reasoning is sound enough. My brother is a district attorney for the city. In an effort to stay in touch with what happens on the streets, he used to hang with a lot of the cops who patrol the city.
