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.
