A week later, a package disappeared completely — kitchen towels and two candles, nothing expensive, tracking said delivered, no photo that time. I filed a claim and got refunded. Then another vanished: dog treats, which made even less sense, since we don’t own a dog — my sister had accidentally shipped them to my old saved address. When I mentioned it, Denise shook her head. “People are shameless.” I agreed. That’s the part that still bothers me — she stood three feet away complaining about the thief.
The Dress That Never Made It Inside
Then came the dress. My company’s spring party had a retro glamour theme that year, half my department planning slip dresses. I spent weeks looking before finding one I liked — pink satin, black lace, a little dramatic but wearable. Ryan looked at the photo. “That looks like lingerie.” “That’s the point.” “Office parties have changed.”
I ordered it Monday for a Friday party, checking tracking so obsessively by Thursday I could’ve recited the delivery route from memory. At 2:14 p.m., the notification came: delivered. I checked the photo from my desk — my front door, my black doormat, the package, right there. I left work at five and drove home. Nothing on the porch. I checked behind the planter, beside the garage, under the bench. Nothing.
I called the courier. “I put it by the door,” the driver said. “I have the photo.” “Then somebody moved it after I left.” I hung up, stood in the driveway, and looked at Denise’s house. Her car was there. Maybe the driver had mixed up an address, I thought, and walked over. She opened the door wearing my dress.
For illustrative purposes only
Bait
After Ryan and I stopped arguing about whether we had enough to confront her outright, I did what we should’ve done months earlier — ordered cameras. Three of them: a doorbell camera, one covering the driveway, one inside the front window aimed at the porch. Ryan helped install everything that night. “Now what?” he asked. “Now we give her something to steal.” “You’re serious.” “Completely.”
I ordered a cheap pair of sunglasses, then a scarf, then a phone case — nothing valuable, just bait. The sunglasses arrived at 1:06 p.m.; at 1:18, a motion alert. Denise walked onto our porch without hesitating, without knocking, without so much as glancing around like she thought it might be hers — bent down, picked it up, tucked it under her arm, and walked home. I stared at the screen, then sent Ryan the clip. “CALL THE POLICE,” he wrote back instantly. I didn’t. Not yet. I wanted to know how routine this actually was.
The scarf came the next day; she waited twenty-three minutes that time before crossing the lawn. The phone case arrived Saturday while we were both home, staying clear of the front windows. At 11:41, the alert. Denise walked up, took the box, walked away. Ryan stared at my phone. “Three times.” “I know.” “Are you satisfied now?” “Almost.” “What does almost mean?” I smiled. “It means I want my stuff back.”
The List
That afternoon I printed stills from each clip and made a list — every package that arrived opened, every one that vanished, dates, retailers, approximate values. It added up to a little over four hundred dollars. Not life-changing, but not nothing. And there was the dress, which bothered me more than everything else combined — not because of the cost, but because she’d actually worn it, then lied to my face about it.
Sunday morning, Ryan and I walked over together. Denise opened the door in jeans and a sweater, smiling. “Hey, guys.” I held up a printed photo — her on our porch, sunglasses package in hand. Her smile disappeared. Nobody spoke. “What is this?” “You know what it is.” She looked at Ryan, then back at me. “Are you spying on me?” Ryan laughed. “You’re on our porch.” Her face reddened. “I was bringing something over.” “No,” I said. “You were taking something.” “That’s not what happened.” I held up the second photo, then the third. “We have video. Three separate deliveries.”
“Give Me Five Minutes”
She crossed her arms. “Maybe they were delivered to me.” “They weren’t.” “How do you know?” “Because they’re addressed to me.” I pulled out the list. “These are the packages that have gone missing or arrived opened in the last three months.” “You’re blaming me for all of that?” “I’m asking you to return anything you took.” “I didn’t take anything.” “Denise.” “I said I didn’t.” Ryan stepped in. “Then explain the videos.” “I thought the packages were mine.” “Three times?” “I get deliveries too.”
