"I'm not joking, Greta."
"Dorothy, what do you mean you fell in love?"
She straightened her shoulders. "Exactly what I said."
"How old is he?"
"Old enough."
That answer made something tighten in my stomach.
Before I could ask anything else, she reached for the grocery bag.
"Thank you, Greta. Alex will help me put these away."
The door closed before I could respond.
I stood on the porch for several seconds, confused and slightly embarrassed. Part of me wondered whether I had insulted her by questioning her. Dorothy was elderly, but she was not helpless. She had every right to make her own decisions.
Still, something about the conversation bothered me.
Two days later, I saw Alex for the first time.
I was leaving for work when Dorothy's front door opened. A young man stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
He looked about 20 years old.
He wore faded jeans, a plain gray sweatshirt, and worn sneakers. His dark hair was messy, and his thin frame made him look even younger. He did not resemble a charming con man from some crime show. He looked like an ordinary young man barely making a living.
When he noticed me watching, he paused.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning."
His eyes moved toward my house, then back to me.
"You must be Greta."
The fact that he knew my name unsettled me.
"And you're Alex."
He nodded.
"How is Dorothy?" I asked.
"She's good."
"I haven't seen her outside lately."
"She's been tired."
His tone remained polite, but there was something guarded about him. Before I could continue, he walked toward an old car parked near the curb and drove away.
Over the next two weeks, I never saw Dorothy outside.
Not once.
I saw Alex coming and going almost every day.
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.
Neither Dorothy nor Alex was anywhere to be found.
"Dorothy?" I called again.
Then I heard it.
A faint knocking sound coming from the basement.
My blood ran cold, and I rushed down the stairs.
The knocking came again as I reached the bottom step.
"Dorothy?" I shouted.
A weak voice answered from behind the storage-room door.
"Greta?"
I rushed across the basement and grabbed the handle. It would not turn.
"I'm here," I said. "Step away from the door."
