We stayed away from the front windows.
At 11:41 a.m., the motion alert came.
Denise walked up. Picked up the box and walked away.
Ryan stared at my phone. “Three times.”
“I know.”
“Are you satisfied now?”
“Almost.”
He rubbed his face. “What does almost mean?”
I smiled. “It means I want my stuff back.”
That afternoon, I printed still images from each video.
Then I made a list.
Every package that had arrived opened.
Every package that had disappeared.
Dates. Retailers. Approximate values.
The missing items added up to a little over $400.
Maybe not life-changing money. But it wasn’t nothing.
And there was the dress.
That dress bothered me more than everything else combined.
Not because it cost the most. Because she had worn it.
She didn’t steal it to resell. She stole it, opened it, put it on, and then lied to my face.
Sunday morning, Ryan and I walked over together.
Denise opened the door wearing jeans and a sweater.
She smiled. “Hey, guys.”
I held up one of the printed photos. Her smile disappeared.
The photo showed her standing on our porch with the sunglasses package in her hand.
Nobody spoke.
Then Denise said, “What is this?”
