Sometimes he arrived in the morning and stayed for hours. Other times, his car remained in Dorothy’s driveway overnight.
Soon, he was letting himself into her house with his own key.
Each time I saw him unlock the door, my concern grew.
I tried to tell myself that Dorothy was happy. Maybe she enjoyed the attention. Maybe Alex helped with the chores I had once done. Maybe I was being judgmental because of the age difference.
But Dorothy had stopped calling me.
She no longer waved from the window or came outside to check her mailbox. Whenever I called her, she ignored the phone.
Instead, she sent short messages.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
The first time, I accepted it.
The second time, I stared at the words for several minutes.
Dorothy usually wrote long messages full of unnecessary details. She added greetings, questions, and reminders that I should wear a coat. She never wrote like that.
I called again.
No answer.
A few minutes later, another message appeared.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
It was exactly the same.
Something about those messages didn’t feel right.
Then, one afternoon, a package meant for Dorothy was delivered to my porch.
I picked it up and carried it next door.
I knocked several times, but no one answered.
“Dorothy?” I called. “It’s Greta.”
Silence.
I knocked harder.
Still nothing.
Growing increasingly worried, I went home and retrieved the emergency key Dorothy had given me years earlier.
My hands shook as I unlocked her door.
The house was perfectly clean.
Too clean.
There were no dirty dishes, no newspapers on the table, and no blanket draped over Dorothy’s chair.
Everything looked arranged and untouched.
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