Derrick climbed down from the truck and jogged up Dorothy Caldwell’s driveway, his heavy work boots thudding against the pavement as the early morning air hung still and quiet around him. The large white house looked peaceful and undisturbed, with sunlight reflecting softly off the tall windows, but something about the silence felt wrong in a way Derrick couldn’t explain.
He stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell.
The chime echoed faintly inside the house.
No answer.
He waited a few seconds and rang it again.
Still nothing.
“Mrs. Caldwell?” Derrick called out, knocking firmly on the door. “It’s Derrick from sanitation.”
The house remained silent.
Derrick stepped off the porch and walked toward the large front window, cupping his hands around his eyes so he could see through the glass. The living room inside looked perfectly normal — furniture neatly arranged, a television remote sitting untouched on the coffee table.
Then he noticed something odd on the marble floor near the kitchen entrance.
A pair of gray house slippers lying sideways.
Not neatly placed.
Not kicked off casually.
They looked as if someone had fallen out of them suddenly.
Derrick’s chest tightened.
He rushed back to the front door and knocked harder.
“Mrs. Caldwell! Are you okay?”
No response.
Back at the truck, Luis shouted nervously.
“What’s going on?”
Derrick stepped back from the door, staring at the thick mahogany wood paneling that framed it. It was clearly expensive — the kind of door most people would never dare damage.
But Derrick wasn’t thinking about property damage.
He was thinking about the slippers.
He took two steps backward.
Then he lifted his steel-toed boot and drove it hard into the wood just above the deadbolt.
The door exploded inward with a loud crack as the frame splintered apart.
Derrick rushed inside.
“Mrs. Caldwell!”
The hallway was dim and quiet.
He followed the corridor toward the kitchen.
And then he saw her.
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