I didn’t see her in the garden.
I barely saw her at all.
The only person I regularly saw coming and going was Alex.
And then I noticed something else.
He had his own key.
He would walk up to Dorothy’s house, unlock the door and let himself inside as though he lived there.
When I called Dorothy, she rarely answered.
Instead, I would receive a short text message.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
Another time:
“Everything is okay. Alex is helping me.”
The messages were reassuring on the surface.
But they didn’t sound like Dorothy.
She normally wrote long messages.
She liked details.
She would tell me about the weather, what she had cooked, something she’d seen on television or a funny story about one of her neighbors.
These messages were short.
Cold.
Almost rehearsed.
Something wasn’t right.
The Package on My Porch
One afternoon, a package meant for Dorothy was delivered to my porch.
