I spent weeks looking for one I actually liked.
Finally, I found it.
Pink satin. Black lace. A little dramatic, but still wearable.
Ryan saw the picture and said, “That looks like lingerie.”
“That’s the point.”
“Office parties have changed.”
I ordered it on Monday. The party was Friday.
By Thursday afternoon, I had checked the tracking so many times I could probably have recited the route.
At 2:14 p.m., I got the notification.
Delivered.
I was still at work, so I checked the photo.
There was my front door. My black doormat.
The package.
Right there.
I left work at five and drove home.
Nothing.
I checked behind the planter. Beside the garage. Under the bench.
Nothing.
I called the courier.
The driver remembered the delivery.
“I put it by the door,” he said.
“I have the photo.”
“Then somebody moved it after I left.”
I hung up and stood in the driveway, then I looked at Denise’s house.
She was home.
I knew because her car was there.
I thought maybe the driver had somehow dropped another package at her place and mixed something up.
So I walked over.
And Denise opened the door wearing my dress.
After Ryan and I stopped arguing about whether we had enough evidence to confront her again, I did the one thing we should have done months earlier.
