I creep quietly up to the peephole and look out. It’s the police. It’s a weekday evening. I don’t answer the door. I almost never do when someone drops by unannounced. I’m definitely not answering this call to order.

Later on, I’m outside and run into my neighbour. He says, “The police were at your door looking for you, did you know that?” I play stupid. I ask him if they said anything to him. What did they want? He didn’t know. Fabulous. Zero helpfulness with one hundred percent nosiness. I know they’ll be back. Forget enjoying the weekend work break. It’s a red alert, all eyes watching for the police.

There is what I know I’m terrified of. Any police are a trigger pull reminder, but that’s another story.

We stand in the hall. He identifies himself as sergeant so and so. A sergeant??? I take his badge number and info, as is my habit. He asks me if my date of birth is such and such. I confirm. He tells me my father has passed away. He really means dead. I tell him my father’s been very ill for a long time, since he’s looking me over, studying my facial expression and body language. All the things I’m not going to say to him. He’d never believe me anyway. I play the role he’s looking for instead.

Finally he says, “Your brother contacted us, do you want me to replay the message?” I do. The sergeant plays it. It’s been years since I’ve heard that voice. I shudder inside. It’s short and to the point with an assumed authority, typical of him.

When, when did my father die? It was on Valentine’s Day. A week and a half later, the police were sent to my door. The sergeant’s being very kind now. He’s playing his part of the script. He offers his contact information, should I need anything. I take it. I thank him and get him on his way. I need to be alone.