Chapter 1 - THE VOICE UNDER DOROTHY’S FLOOR
The front door opened behind me.
I turned so fast my shoulder hit the basement door.
Alex stood in the entryway carrying two grocery bags.
For half a second, neither of us spoke.
He looked younger up close than he had from across the street.
Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.
Wet hair.
Gray sweatshirt.
A bruise along one cheekbone I had never noticed before.
His eyes dropped to the emergency key in my hand.
Then to the locked basement door.
“What are you doing here?”
I heard Dorothy again.
Very faint.
“Rachel…”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
I held my phone at my side.
“Where is she?”
Alex set the grocery bags down slowly.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Dorothy is in the basement.”
“No.”
“I heard her.”
His face changed.
Not surprise.
Fear.
“Rachel.”
“Open the door.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
He looked toward the basement.
“You need to leave.”
I unlocked my phone.
“I’m calling 911.”
His hand came up.
“Wait.”
I stepped backward.
“Do not come closer.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“There’s an eighty-three-year-old woman locked downstairs.”
“She isn’t locked down there because of me.”
That stopped me.
“Then who?”
He looked toward the front windows.
A car moved slowly past the house.
Dark blue SUV.
Alex watched it until it disappeared.
Then he whispered:
“Please close the curtains.”
“What?”
“Rachel, if you care about Dorothy, close them.”
Something in his voice made me hesitate.
Not authority.
Panic.
I still dialed 911.
Then I closed the curtains.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My elderly neighbor is locked in her basement. I can hear her calling for help.”
Alex shut his eyes.
The dispatcher asked the address.
I gave it.
“Is the person who locked her there present?”
“I don’t know.”
Alex looked at me sharply.
I continued.
“There’s a young man here. His name is Alex. He says he didn’t do it.”
The dispatcher told me to stay on the line and avoid confrontation.
Then Dorothy knocked again.
Three weak taps.
I could not wait.
“Where’s the key?”
Alex whispered, “I don’t have it.”
“Who does?”
He swallowed.
“My father.”
I stared.
“Who is your father?”
Before he could answer, a car door slammed outside.
Alex went pale.
“That’s him.”
The doorknob turned.
Locked.
Someone tried again.
Then a fist hit the front door.
“Alex!”
The voice was older.
Hard.
Alex backed away.
“Do not open that.”
I kept the dispatcher on speaker.
“Police are coming.”
“That won’t scare him.”
“Who is he?”
Alex looked at me.
“My father is Dorothy’s nephew.”
I knew Dorothy had a sister who died years ago.
I knew almost nothing about the sister’s family.
The pounding came again.
“Alex! Open the damn door!”
Dorothy called from beneath us.
“Rachel…”
I grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the hall table.
Alex almost laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Dorothy hates that thing.”
“This isn’t the time.”
“No.”
He looked toward the basement.
“She says it’s ugly.”
The pounding stopped.
That frightened me more.
I walked toward the basement door.
“Help me break it.”
“It opens outward.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The lock is on this side.”
My stomach turned cold.
I had been trying the wrong thing.
A small brass slide bolt had been installed high on the frame.
New.
I had never seen it.
I pulled it back.
The door opened.
A smell rose from the basement.
Damp concrete.
Urine.
Something medicinal.
I ran down the stairs.
“Dorothy?”
A single bulb lit the laundry area.
Her old washer and dryer were gone.
So were the shelves where she kept canned food.
At the far end, a storage room door stood closed.
I heard scratching.
“Dorothy!”
“Here.”
I pulled the door open.
She was on a folding cot.
Gray hair flattened to one side.
Wearing pajamas.
A blanket over her legs.
A plastic cup beside her.
No restraints.
No chains.
That somehow made it worse.
Her face crumpled when she saw me.
“Oh, honey.”
I dropped beside her.
“What happened?”
She reached for my hand.
“Don’t let him take the house.”
Upstairs, glass shattered.
Alex shouted:
“Dad, stop!”
The dispatcher said officers were less than two minutes away.
Dorothy flinched.
I stood.
“Stay here.”
She gripped my wrist.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don’t leave me.”
That was the first time in thirty years Dorothy had ever sounded afraid to be alone.
I stayed.
Footsteps pounded upstairs.
A man yelled.
Alex shouted back.
Then police sirens filled the street.
The struggle stopped.
Within minutes, two officers came downstairs.
I moved aside.
Paramedics followed.
Dorothy’s blood pressure was dangerously low.
She was dehydrated.
There was bruising around one wrist.
One paramedic asked:
“How long have you been down here?”
Dorothy looked at Alex, who had been brought to the basement doorway by an officer.
“Three days.”
I stared at him.
He shook his head.
“I brought food.”
Dorothy closed her eyes.
“I know, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
Not monster.
Not kidnapper.
The older man upstairs began shouting again.
“This is my aunt’s house! That girl is trespassing!”
Dorothy’s eyes opened.
“That’s Leonard.”
I leaned closer.
“Your nephew?”
“Yes.”
“Did he lock you down here?”
Her mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
Alex looked away.
I asked the question I had been afraid to ask.
“Then why was Alex here every day?”
Dorothy looked at him.
May you like
And said:
“Because he was trying to keep his father from finding out I’d changed my will.”
