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I sit alone sometimes, still with a heavy heart, thinking about Beverly, because she was such a good friend.

We knew each other four years. We met at work. She would come in and always say, “Hey, girlfriend!” and I would say the same. She made being at work a little more pleasant.

Right now I’m going through some grieving. Sometimes people say, “Well, she wasn’t your family,” but you can be closer to your friends than you are to your family. There was so much: intimate conversations, time spent together, functions we attended. She was also very close to my daughter.

Monday, Oct. 19, she didn’t show up for work at 6:30. She didn’t call in, and that’s not like her, so I got kind of worried.

I called and got her answering machine. I called her during work, after I got home, before I went to bed. I called her again early the next morning. Then I called her day job, and they told me she wasn’t there. She hadn’t shown up there Monday either.

After I hung up, I told my mother, “I’m going to her house to see what’s wrong,” and my mother said, “I’m coming with you.”

We drove over to her house. It was all locked up, the mail was still in the box, her car was still in the garage. We waited about 40 minutes for the management to check the apartment, and I knew something wasn’t right then. When they came back, they told us to have a seat, and then they said Miss Price was lying down in the dining room, dead. Apparently she had hit her head.

After the service the following week, I saw one of her neighbors outside her apartment, when Beverly’s family went to get her things out. He said that he had heard Beverly fall down the stairs last weekend and he went to her door, knocked on it, but there was no answer. He had started to call 911 and changed his mind and hung up. He told this to the family.

When we went to her apartment Tuesday, the medical people told us she had only been dead six hours. From Sunday night to Tuesday morning she lay there, alive. She lay there all that time.

I don’t know why the neighbor hadn’t been a little more observant, why he hadn’t called 911. She had died from cerebral trauma; whether it was from falling or from a hemorrhage, we’ll never know. A lot of people feel, “It was just her time.” But she had only just turned 49.

It’s still bothering me.

It makes me flash back about 14 years ago, when I was robbed in my home. Two men came into my apartment as I went outside to empty the trash. It was afternoon and my landlord was home. I felt safe.

When I got back, two young hoodlums were in my apartment. One guy broke my jaw. They tied me up and had a gun on me. My landlady came to the door to ask if everything was all right, and I had to say yes. But my face was all red, I looked bewildered and wild and crazy. I mouthed the words, “Call the police,” and she just looked at me. Her husband came up next, asked me the same thing, and he went away.

After the robbers took some things, they walked out, down the stairs, right past everybody, got in their car and drove off. Then here comes my landlord, and his wife, and one of the neighbors across the hall, saying: “I knew it! I knew something wasn’t right!” I was so outraged, I moved out.

Beverly’s death, hearing this neighbor of hers, brought this all back. It’s the same thing: People suspect something’s wrong, but don’t do anything.

Beverly in all probability could have lived. I have a hard time coming to grips with that. I’m glad I had the opportunity to be her friend, that she brought such joy into my life. I have all these good memories. I’ll hang onto that.