I had complained to my neighbor for weeks about someone messing with my deliveries. Then she opened her door, and suddenly every missing package felt connected.
“Denise, where did you get that?”
She looked down at the pink slip dress she was wearing, then back at me.
“This?”
My mouth had gone dry.
Soft pink satin. Black lace along the neckline and hem. It had thin straps.
The exact dress I’d ordered for a work party.
The same dress that had been marked delivered to my front porch two hours earlier.
Denise smiled.
“Oh, no. This is just my nightgown.”
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
My brain simply hadn’t caught up yet.
“I ordered one exactly like that,” I said. “It never showed up.”
Her smile faded a little. “Well, this isn’t yours.”
“Maybe the courier mixed up the houses.”
“He didn’t.”
“You don’t even know which courier I used.”
That was when her whole face changed.
Just slightly. But enough.
I pointed toward the side seam. “Can I see the label?”
“No.”
“I only want to check the brand.”
“I said no.”
Then she shut the door in my face.
I stood on her porch for several seconds, staring at a white door that had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.
