ELEVEN

ELEVEN

THE KIDS AREN'T HOME, I keep reminding myself, my chest burning with dread while I drive. Whatever the burglars steal, they steal. It's all replaceable. My family is not .

But our dog. Lulu will be freaked with the alarm going off. Whoever broke in — they wouldn't hurt Lulu, would they?

"I can come home," David says into my earbuds.

"Where are you?" I ask him, not hearing the crowd noise I'd usually expect from the lunch rush.

"The pub," he says. "Out back taking out the trash. It's a madhouse. All hands on deck. Do you want me to come?"

"Just wait," I say as I turn my car onto Cedar, within sight of our house. "The police are here. Two cars."

"Be careful, Marce. Let them do the heavy lifting. And call me."

I park in the driveway and get out of my car, shaky, unnerved. A police officer, a large man, comes around from the side of the house. "You're the homeowner? Mrs. Bowers?"

"Yes."

"We don't see any outward sign of forced entry. We have officers by the patio door."

"Hey, Marce." It's Kyle, walking through my backyard.

I haven't seen him in over a year. Every once in a while, we run into each other. It's become less awkward over the years, but still — it's awkward.

"Oh — hey," I say.

"Doesn't look like anyone forced their way in," Kyle says. "Okay if I enter and look around?"

"God, please do," I say.

"Okay. Officer Blatt here is going to keep watch over the front of the house."

In case whoever's inside runs out the front to escape, though he doesn't want to say that to me.

"Why don't you stay out here, just in case?" he says. "Maybe across the street."

In case someone really is inside and there's a confrontation. I shudder at the thought of someone creeping through our house, our things.

My nerves jangling, I follow him to the patio door. There's another cop, skinny and young, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, hand on his holster. Closer to the door, I can hear the whooping siren, the burglar alarm going haywire inside.

"I'm going in, too," I say.

"That's not a good idea. Let us do our jobs."

"My dog's in there. I'm going in."

Kyle pauses but says nothing. He reaches for the door handle. Grips it and turns it. The door opens, the sound of the burglar alarm piercing now.

He turns back to me. "This door's normally locked, I assume?"

"Yes. I mean, it should be."

Especially last night, after the unexplained barbecue on our back patio at nine thirty at night. David slept near this door the rest of the night. No way he left it unlocked.

"The alarm probably scared him off," says Kyle. "He's probably a mile away from here by now. Probably never even got inside."

But that doesn't stop Kyle from drawing his service weapon off his hip holster. The other cop does the same. Kyle puts a protective hand on the other officer's gun and gently pushes it downward. "Gun stays down unless, Stevens, right?"

"Roger that, Sergeant."

Kyle nods. "Okay, let's have a look."