PART 1

At precisely seven o’clock on a chilly Tuesday morning, someone hammered loudly against our heavy wooden front door.

Three violent raps shook the small rectangular glass pane beside the entryway, cutting through the soft country music playing from the small counter radio.

I was standing beside the stove in my worn fleece robe, carefully pouring fresh coffee into my husband’s stainless travel mug.

Owen had already kissed my cheek and left for his early shift as a senior lineman for Blue Ridge Electric around six.

The single-story house on Maple Crest Lane was peaceful, smelling of warm sourdough toast and hazelnut roast.

I set the glass carafe down on the silicone trivet when the sudden pounding repeated with urgent force.

Nobody ever knocked on our front porch at seven in the morning in our quiet suburban subdivision.

I hurried down the hallway, pulled my robe tighter across my chest, and turned the deadbolt to pull the door open.

Two uniformed police officers stood on the wooden steps under the dim morning light.

Their marked cruiser was parked directly at the curb with its engine idling, sending pale exhaust into the cold autumn air.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the taller officer said in a deep voice.

“Are you Rebecca Dawson?”

My stomach instantly sank into a pit of cold dread as my mind scrambled for an immediate explanation.

I wondered if Owen had suffered an electric shock high above the ground on a utility pole.

I thought of my frail mother resting in her assisted living suite across town, and my younger sister living out in Kansas City.

Then my racing thoughts snapped straight to my thirteen-year-old son, who was supposed to be getting ready for school upstairs.

I had heard the plumbing pipes rattle when he ran the shower only ten minutes ago.