I hesitate. I don’t want to go in, if it’s who I think it is. Cuckoo, as my husband refers to his ex-wife, has been contacting me recently. I am not on the restraining order as she never seemed to pose a direct threat to me. Her beef was with him; I wasn’t in the picture till well after their contentious divorce and custody battle were over.

My social media was as locked down as it could be, my privacy settings tight. I’d blocked her from my Gmail when over the course of two days a few years ago I got 300 emails sent in a frenzy all at once, photos and doctored documents “proving” she was the sane one and my husband was an abuser. I ignored the emails, blocked her, tightened everything up, and didn’t hear another word until two weeks ago when I received some vaguely threatening texts promising to prove to me that my husband was a liar and that I WOULD LISTEN to her this time.

Now my front door, which I admittedly forget to lock sometimes, is open.

I want to call the police but my first worry is my animals. I wouldn’t put it past this psycho to harm the things we love.

I don’t have to make the call. As I step out of my car, a squad car with another one close behind, swoosh up with that short clipped woop woop partial siren they use.

“Your neighbor called, ma’am. Stay by your car.” said the first officer, a burly red faced fellow quickly and authoritatively. “She said someone suspicious went into your house.” He motioned to the other officer and Burly Red Face proceeded through the front while his younger colleague went around back. I stood with my car shielding me, watching with a kind of detachment, a state I go into when I don’t have control of a bad situation.

Within a few seconds I heard a minor commotion, the calm but stern voice of the police officer and the rapid fire, angry, high pitched protestation of innocence and blame emanating from the perpetrator, exactly whom I suspected. Then they came out the front door, she in handcuffs, still spewing nonsense, her blond hair disheveled, her eyes black with crazy rage. She looked over at me and her eyes narrowed.

“You’ll pay for this! My dad knows the governor!” She howled. I didn’t respond, and looked away as she was led to the police car.

The officer loaded her in amid more kicking and nonsensical screaming, and came over to provide me with his card and a case number, promising we would hear more soon. He told me to check if anything had been disturbed in the house and to let them know.

I realized I hadn’t said a word this whole time. I swallowed and thanked him and started walking toward my front steps. I was now aware I’d been gripping my keys and my hand was sore with the force of my hold on them. I had a quick flash of gratitude for my nosy neighbors, all equipped with security cameras and inquiring minds, trapped working at home during quarantine.

I took a deep breath, and walked inside.