The two people who knocked on our door in late August 2019 stuck out in the neighborhood like sore thumbs. In rural Connecticut, where tank tops and flip-flops are the vogue, no one shows up at someone’s door on a summer afternoon dressed in the gray suit and black leather shoes of a federal employee. After opening the door to them, my thirteen-year-old shouted, with the same insouciance he had used for the UPS man, “Mom, it’s the FBI!”
They stood at the threshold, brandishing their gold badges. I could but invite them in. Although the man did not strike me as a Steve, nor the woman as an Emily, as they introduced themselves, they appeared warm and genuine. We sat awkwardly together in the living room. My mind was racing, wondering what wrong I might have done to warrant a visit from the FBI. Sensing the need to allay such fears, Steve quickly dispensed with the small talk.
The New York Review of Books, August 22, 2021