A loud knocking on the front door rattled me out of my thoughts.
“Who the hell?” I muttered, my heart pounding from the unexpected noise.
Getting up from my cross-legged position on the living room rug, I wiped my hands free of dust with the towel and made my way to the front door. When I opened it, I stood up a little straighter. A cop? What on earth was a cop doing here?
“Hi,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“Is that your car out front?” he asked, his southern drawl so strong I almost thought he was a parody.
“Your inspection sticker’s about to expire.”
I felt my brow furrowing as I stared at this in confusion. What the hell was a cop doing coming to the door to let me know that my inspection sticker was about to expire? Not that it had actually expired but that it was about to. And not only that, but I’d never in my life heard of policemen making house calls to inform people of such a thing. They didn’t even pull people over for about-to-be-expired stickers. Hell, in Dallas, I went a whole year once without realizing the sticker had expired, and it was the guy who did my oil change who’d pointed it out to me. Was this house-call a Lamppost thing?