Now you're going to have to bear with me, because y'all are killing me with these

pronunciations.

I think it's spelled Old Greenwich, but pronounced Old Greenwich. In either case, all y'all up in Connecticut are

a bit weird. You talk funny. Anyway, in this weird, funny talking part of the world, a woman

stands at her kitchen window. She's tense. Her gaze is locked on the house across the street.

The rhythmic metallic click of a bicycle adjusting in the quiet street echoes faintly in

her memory.

Deepening the unease that grows with each hour, Suzanne, is absent. Suzanne's house looks exactly as it always does, every shutter perfectly in place.

But Suzanne herself hasn't been seen for days, and that uneasy chill grows stronger as time drifts on.

Suzanne rides her bike most days, a slow, familiar

loop around the neighborhood. Her thoughts heavy, the woman picks up her phone, fingers trembling

as she dials the police. When the Greenwich Police dispatcher answers, she explains her concern.

Her voice edged with worry. She hears the flurry of keystrokes as the dispatcher answers, she explains her concern. Her voice edged with worry.

She hears the flurry of keystrokes as the dispatcher types into the system.

Suzanne Adams, 83, 11, Shoreland's Place.

Welfare check.

A short time later, two patrol cars pull up silently.

The officers move with careful purpose towards the door.

The street holds its breath, waiting.

As they reappear, urgency quickens their steps.

One officer reaches for the radio, the other strides towards the cruiser, determination etched

in all of his features.

...