My mind immediately races to worst-case scenarios—was there an accident? A break-in? Why would the police be here, in the middle of nowhere? Is it Louie?
A loud knock at the front door snaps me out of my thoughts, making me flinch. My heart jumps in my chest, the sudden noise propelling me out of bed. The pounding is relentless, echoing through the cabin like thunder. I slip on my robe with shaky hands and grab my phone, my pulse quickening with each step toward the front door.
I check the time on my phone. It’s almost five in the morning. The sun should be coming up soon.
I flip on the front porch light, the brightness flooding the small space in front of the cabin, and peer through the peephole.
The sight that greets me is unexpected. It’s a police officer, standing a couple of feet from my door. His stance is casual, but there’s an air of urgency in the way he cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder toward his patrol car.
The flashing lights from the car are so bright that they cast him in silhouette, making it difficult to discern his features. His profile is outlined by the harsh glow of red and blue, and for a second, I feel a strange disconnect, like this scene is happening to someone else and I’m just watching it unfold. My mind races with questions.
I hesitate for a moment, gripping my phone tightly, my fingers hovering over the screen. Should I call someone?
No, it’s too late. Or too early. Either way, I can handle this.
It’s probably just a misunderstanding—a wrong address, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the unease from settling deep in my stomach as I take a breath and reach for the door handle.
With one last glance through the peephole, I unlock the bottom lock first, wondering what on earth could have brought a police officer to my quiet, secluded cabin in the dead of night.
My thoughts spin out of control as I stand here, hand on the dead bolt, hesitating for a moment longer before I finally release it. Even though I unlock the door, I leave the chain latched, opening it only a few inches. A small sliver of space, just enough to see out, but not enough to let anything—or anyone—inside.
Being a writer comes with a constant sense of distrust, no matter what uniform someone might be wearing. I’ve created too many plot twists, written too many villains disguised as heroes, not to assume the worst in every situation.
My brain automatically goes to the darkest places—What if he’s in a fake police car?
For all I know, this guy could be posing as an officer, flashing fake credentials just so I’ll open the door and make myself vulnerable. Too many crime stories, too much stolen valor, too many psychological thrillers. I’ve been conditioned to be suspicious of every scenario.
But still, curiosity and concern push me to at least hear him out.
When the officer hears the door creak open, he shifts his gaze toward me, locking eyes with mine. The flashing lights from his patrol car are still making it difficult to see his features clearly, distorting his face in alternating washes of red and blue and shadows. My eyes are still heavy with sleep, making the whole situation feel surreal, like I’m caught between a dream and reality.
But even with the disorienting lights, there’s one thing I can tell for sure—this is not your stereotypical donut-and-coffee-for-breakfast kind of cop.
He’s tall, broad shouldered, and muscular, the kind of guy who looks like he spends more time in a gym than a precinct. The sight of him standing here, so authoritative and composed, makes me suddenly hyperaware of my own appearance. I’m still in my robe, underdressedand vulnerable, a detail that makes me pull the robe tighter around my body.
I have no idea why he’s here, but part of me, maybe the writer in me, can’t help but appreciate the timing. If I had to imagine what Hot Cop Cam from my book would look like, this guy would be it.
My brain catalogs the moment, storing away the image of him for later use.This is the face you need to put on Cam,I think, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the odd circumstances.
The officer holds up his badge, the metal catching the porch light for a moment. I squint, my eyes landing on his name and then on the glint of a wedding ring on his left hand.Of course he’s married.Not that it matters, but it’s another detail my overactive mind clings to as I add to the list another similarity between this guy and my character.
I feel like I just found my muse.
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” he says in a scratchy deep baritone that seems to vibrate through me. “I’m Officer Nathaniel Saint.”
I stare at the badge, reading his name again, even though it’s already etched in my memory. My heart is still racing, but now it feels like a different kind of racing, equal parts nerves and something else I can’t quite name. I bring my hand up to my throat, pressing it against my skin as if I can physically calm my own heart down.
As Officer Saint lowers his badge, putting it back into his pocket, I realize this isn’t some dream or figment of my imagination.
This is real.
There is a police officer standing at my door in the middle of the night, and that can only mean one thing:Something bad has happened.
Panic surges through me as my thoughts immediately jump to my family. Did something happen to someone I care about? The cold rush of dread washes over me, making it hard to breathe as a thousand horrible scenarios flash through my mind.
As if sensing my unease, Officer Saint softens his voice, his tone smoothing over like he’s trying to reassure me. “There’s nothing toworry about,” he says, his voice gentler now, more calming. “I’m just here to inform you that there was an incident that occurred on this road tonight. I just have a couple of questions if you don’t mind. Protocol.”
I let out a shaky breath of relief, my tension easing a little at the words.
