The sun had not fully cleared the rooflines on Wednesday morning when I walked down my driveway to retrieve the morning paper.
Dorothy’s house remained completely dark. Every single cream-colored window shade was pulled down to the sill, hiding the living room and the kitchen from the street.
I stood near the property line, pretending to unwrap the plastic sleeve of my newspaper while I stared at her front windows.
Mr. Jenkins down the street was already out, leaning heavily on his wooden walking cane as he made his way toward my yard. He tapped the cane twice against the asphalt to get my attention.
“Quiet morning,” he boomed, his theatrical voice carrying easily through the cold air. “Have you seen Dorothy today?”
“She is resting,” I said, adjusting my watch. “Have you noticed anyone else coming by her place?”
“A young fellow in an old green car,” Mr. Jenkins said, pointing the tip of his cane toward her driveway. “He was here late last night.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“Tall, hooded sweatshirt,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Carried a heavy box inside while she held the door for him.”
