His answer sounded familiar.
Too familiar.
"Would you mind telling her I stopped by?"
"Of course."
He gave me a polite smile, returned to his car, and drove away.
I watched until he disappeared around the corner.
There was nothing openly threatening about him.
He hadn't acted aggressively. He hadn't tried to prevent me from speaking to Dorothy. If anything, he had seemed nervous around me.
But the situation still troubled me.
Over the following two weeks, Dorothy became increasingly difficult to reach.
She stopped coming outside to collect her mail in the mornings.
Her curtains remained closed longer than usual.
When I called, she rarely answered.
On the occasions when I received a text message, it was brief.
I'm fine. Don't worry.
Or:
Everything is okay.
Sometimes:
Busy today. Talk later.
Those messages bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Dorothy had never been brief in her life.
If I asked whether she needed groceries, she would normally respond with three paragraphs about what she had eaten for breakfast, whether the weather might change, and which television program she had watched the previous evening.
She loved telling stories.
Even a simple goodnight message usually included a reminder to eat properly, sleep enough, and avoid unnecessary stress.
Now her replies seemed empty.
I began to wonder whether someone else was using her phone.
Meanwhile, Alex continued visiting.
Sometimes his car was parked outside early in the morning. Other times, I saw it late at night.
One evening, his vehicle remained in the driveway until the following morning.
Then I noticed something that frightened me even more.
Alex was unlocking Dorothy's front door with his own key.
I stood at my living room window, watching him disappear inside.
Why would an eighty-three-year-old widow give a stranger access to her home after knowing him for only a short time?
I tried calling Dorothy immediately.
No answer.
I sent a message.
Dorothy, please call me. I'm worried about you.
Twenty minutes later, a reply appeared.
I'm fine. Please don't worry.
I stared at the screen.
The words were perfectly ordinary.
But they didn't feel like Dorothy.
That evening, I barely slept.
I imagined terrible possibilities.
Perhaps Alex was isolating her from people who cared about her. Perhaps he was taking her money. Perhaps Dorothy was too embarrassed or frightened to admit that something was wrong.
At the same time, I knew assumptions could be dangerous.
I had no proof that Alex had done anything wrong.
But I couldn't ignore the possibility that Dorothy needed help.
Then, one afternoon, a delivery driver accidentally left a package meant for Dorothy on my porch.
I picked it up and saw her name printed on the label.
It seemed like the perfect excuse to check on her.
I carried the package next door and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
"Dorothy?" I called through the door.
Silence.
I waited.
Then I noticed that the house was unusually quiet.
No television.
No footsteps.
No familiar voice calling out from another room.
I took out the emergency key Dorothy had given me years earlier.
For a moment, I hesitated.
I had always promised myself I would use it only if there was a genuine emergency.
But standing on that porch, with every instinct telling me something was wrong, I decided I couldn't walk away.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
What I discovered would change the way I understood Dorothy, Alex, and even myself.
Chapter 4: The Sound From the Basement
The first thing I noticed was how clean the house looked.
Dorothy had always been tidy, but this was different.
The kitchen counters were spotless. The dishes had been washed and put away. The throw pillows on the sofa were arranged perfectly, and the magazines that usually covered the coffee table had been stacked neatly.
Everything seemed almost too carefully organized.
I set the package on the kitchen table.
"Dorothy?"
No response.
I walked into the living room.
Her favorite armchair stood beside the front window, with a folded blanket resting across one arm.
An unfinished crossword puzzle lay on the side table.
Her reading glasses were beside it.
Those familiar objects offered some reassurance, but I still couldn't find her.
I checked the kitchen, bathroom, and bedrooms.
Nothing.
My imagination began racing.
Had Alex taken her somewhere?
Was she at the hospital?
Had something happened that nobody had bothered to tell me?
I returned to the hallway, trying to decide whether I should call for help.
That's when I heard it.
A faint knocking sound.
At first, I thought it came from outside.
Then it happened again.
Three weak taps.
A pause.
Two more.
I stood completely still.
The sound seemed to be coming from below me.
The basement.
Dorothy rarely went downstairs anymore.
The old wooden steps were steep, and I had repeatedly warned her that carrying things up and down them could be dangerous.
I hurried toward the basement door.
"Dorothy?"
A weak sound answered from below.
I turned on the light and rushed down the stairs.
The basement smelled faintly of cardboard, laundry detergent, and old wood.
Rows of boxes stood along one wall.
The knocking came from a storage room at the far end.
"Dorothy!" I shouted.
"Greta?"
Her voice was weak, but unmistakable.
My heart pounded.
"I'm here! Are you hurt?"
"I fell, sweetheart."
I reached the storage-room door and grabbed the handle.
It wouldn't open.
I pulled harder.
The latch seemed jammed.
"Move away from the door if you can," I called.
"I can't get up."
Panic surged through me.
I braced one foot against the floor and pulled with both hands.
Nothing.
Then I pushed hard against the old wooden door.
The frame creaked.
I tried again.
On the third attempt, the damaged latch snapped.