I had hired a young man to mow the lawn because my daughter was away for the weekend at her mother’s and my garden was a mess. We live in a terraced house on the outskirts of Santander, with a small basement that I use for storage. The young man’s name was Dylan Cooper. He was nineteen, a polite student—the kind who answers “Yes, sir” without irony.
Everything had gone well. I was at the office, about twenty minutes from home, checking my emails and wondering if I should replace the hedge with gravel. Exactly one hour later, my phone started vibrating.
It was Dylan.
“Yes?” I replied in a choked voice.
I could hear him breathing so close to the microphone, as if he didn’t want to be heard.
“Mr. Ivan Hartley,” he whispered. “Is anyone else home right now?”
I laughed briefly, mockingly. “No. I’m working. Why?”
A heavy silence settled in.
“I hear crying,” he finally said, “coming from the basement. And it doesn’t sound like the TV.”
A shiver ran down my spine. The basement. The basement door, in the kitchen, behind the pantry. Always locked.
“Are you sure?” I asked, getting up mechanically.
“Yes.” It sounded like someone was trying to cry softly. Then there was a dull thud, like something hitting wood.
I felt the blood rush to my feet. My palms were sweaty.
“Dylan, get out of here. Now. Get out. Don’t come in.”
“I’m outside,” he murmured, but I could still hear him. I could hear him through the kitchen hood. “Sir, the back door is locked, but there’s mud on the steps. It looks like someone came in today.”
I glanced at my watch. I looked at my keys on the table. They trembled in my hand as if they didn’t belong to me.
“Call the police,” I ordered immediately. “I’m coming.”
As I ran towards my car, a message hastily typed by her reached me.
“You’re not alone. There’s someone in there. I heard them moving. And the crying stopped.”
I sped off without thinking. In the rearview mirror, the city looked normal. Too normal. I was driving on the highway, my heart pounding, repeating a stupid phrase like a mantra:
“The windows are locked. The door is locked. So, who’s home?”
I don’t remember the entire journey. I remember the sound of a red light that felt like an insult, a car horn as I changed lanes without looking, and the metallic taste in my mouth. I dialed 911 on speakerphone, but my voice was hoarse.
“There’s… someone in my house,” I said. “An employee heard crying in the basement. Santander is in the area.”
The operator reassured me with a series of brief questions. He asked for the exact address, a description of the person, whether there were any weapons, and if there were any children. When he said “children,” I thought of my nine-year-old daughter, Chloe, and felt dizzy. But she was in Laredo with her mother. I knew that. Still, fear is irrational.
“There’s nobody here except the gardener, and he’s outside,” I replied.
“Do not enter the house. Wait for the patrol,” I ordered.
Dylan called back. He wasn’t whispering much anymore, but his voice betrayed his words.
“Sir, there’s a white van parked two houses down. It wasn’t there when I arrived. And I think someone is watching us from an upstairs window.”
“Don’t look,” I said. “Stay in the street. Do you see any neighbors?”
“The lady from the corner went out to take out the trash and she came back.”
“If needed, ring the bell. Don’t stay alone.”
I entered the neighborhood and, in the distance, I saw Dylan standing on the sidewalk, the lawnmower at his feet, his face pale. My neighbor, Maria del Carmen, was beside him, holding his arm as if he were her nephew. That comforted me a little.
I stopped, got out of the car and Dylan came towards me.
“I swear, sir, there was crying. A girl, I think. Then something fell.” He stopped abruptly.
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