For a second I thought I’d misheard her. The words were there, but they didn’t fit together. My son. David. Theft. One hundred thousand dollars.
I actually laughed, because that is sometimes what terror does. It makes you sound crazy.
“I’m sorry,” I said, gripping the doorframe. “What?”
“Mrs. Chen,” Rodriguez said more gently, “we need to come in.”
My heartbeat slammed so hard I could hear it in my ears. Somewhere behind me, I heard David turn a page.
“My son didn’t steal anything,” I said. “There has to be some mistake.”
“That’s what we’re here to determine,” the detective replied.
I looked at the officers, at the badges, at the way one of them shifted his weight like he was ready for resistance. Then I stepped back.
“Come in,” I said. “And when you see my son, you’re going to realize exactly how big a mistake this is.”
They crossed the threshold, bringing cold air and the smell of wool and rain with them. The detective took in the family photos on the wall. David at age eight in a Broncos jersey. David grinning from his wheelchair beside a science fair display. David and me at Red Rocks, his head tipped against my shoulder, both of us sunburned and happy.
