Page 3 of Guarded from Sabotage

Except it doesn’t.

As my cheeks get hotter, Raya whips out her card and says, “I’ve got it, Sarah. These companies. They’re always messing things up. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

It has to be. One of the things I learned from my parents was to always,alwayspay my bills on time.Bills first, my dad would remind me,you always pay your bills first. Then you budget for the fun stuff.

Still, my appetite disappears and all I can do is nibble at my sandwich while Raya watches me with concern. She keeps telling me it’s fine, it happens to everyone, and I can call when we get back to the office and get it all worked out.

Except I have a client meeting as soon as I get back, and I don’t have time to pick up the phone for another hour. I successfully shove back the niggling worry during the meeting, but the second my office door shuts, I look up the number for the credit card company and rummage through my purse to grab my phone.

There’s a new voicemail and I almost ignore it until later, but then I wonder if it’s the credit card company calling to explain the mixup. To apologize for somehow not crediting my last payment or something innocent like that.

But it’s not.

And the sense of foreboding returns with a vengeance.

It’s a scripted message from a debt collector, using vaguely threatening words like dispute and judgment and legal action, ending with a promise to call back in the evening so we can discuss the issue further.

The small amount of sandwich I ate turns into a lump of iron in my belly, and a sick feeling sweeps over me.

Debt collection?

The only loans I have are for my car and grad school, and I’m absolutely sure they’re both current. I just checked my car loan statement two days ago, and it was fine. And when I looked at my student loans the other day, the balance due was zero.

I don’thavepersonal loans. This doesn’t make sense.

And on the heels of the mixup at the restaurant? Can this really be a coincidence?

For a second, I think about calling my dad, even though I’m thirty-three years old and perfectly capable of dealing with this on my own. I have a Masters, for Pete’s sake. I took financial algebra and statistics in college. There’s no reason for me to call my parents for help.

What do I tell my clients when they’re dealing with a problem? Granted, they’re kids, and their issues are much different, but the strategies are the same. Don’t panic. Take things one step at a time. Control the things you can and ask for help with the rest.

I’m an adult, and I can figure this out.

Glancing at the time, I realize I have an hour until my next appointment. That’s plenty of time to make a couple of calls. Maybe even get it all worked out, and this will just be a temporary inconvenience I’ll forget about in a few days.

Just as I’m looking up the number for the credit card company, the phone on my desk rings. It’s Ellis, one of our receptionists, and she sounds flustered as she says, “Sarah. There are some people here to see you. They’re coming up right now.”

“What?” This is highly unusual. I see my clients by appointment only, and I never have people just popping in to see me. “Who is it?”

“The police,” she replies quietly. “They showed their badges and said they needed to speak with you right away.”

The police?

My heart stutters.

Cold fear trickles down my back.

Is it one of my clients? Did something happen to them?

Not little Olivia, whose dad was just let out on bail after a violent incident with her mother.

Or Miguel, who I’ve been working to get into a different school so he can get away from the incessant bullying.

Oh, please. Not any of my clients. But they’re not just clients; they’re so much more than that. They’re kids I’ve grown to care for, and the ever-present worry of something happening to them is the toughest part of the job.

A loud knock jerks my head towards the door, where two somber-faced men in uniform are standing. One has his hand resting on his gun, and my heart skitters again.

“Sarah Pearce?” the taller one asks.

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