Then I walked home.
My husband, Ryan, was standing in the kitchen when I came inside.
He took one look at me. “What happened?”
“She’s wearing my dress.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Denise.”
His expression went blank. “The missing one?”
“The missing one.”
Ryan stared at me.
Then he said, “She’s taking your packages.”
“I know.”
“Call the police.”
“And say what? My neighbor owns the same dress I ordered?”
“You have delivery confirmation.”
“I have a picture proving it was left on our porch. I don’t have a picture of Denise taking it.”
“So what, you’re just going to let it go?”
I looked through the kitchen window toward her house. “No.”
Ryan knew that tone. “Oh no.”
“I have a plan.”
My name is Jenna. My husband Ryan and I have lived in our house for almost five years.
Denise moved in next door about 18 months ago.
We were friendly.
Not close enough to exchange house keys, but close enough to stand in the driveway talking for 20 minutes when one of us was supposed to be somewhere else.
She knew where I worked. I knew her divorce had been ugly.
She borrowed my hedge trimmer once. I borrowed her ladder.
