A Pattern in the Morning

Six months ago, after the divorce papers were signed and his ex-wife had taken the couch she swore she’d never wanted, he’d bought the place in Maplewood Estates because the realtor kept saying “quiet” and “well-kept” like those were the same thing as safe. The yard was small. The roof was new. The HOA rules were printed in a glossy packet that made the whole neighborhood look like a show model.

He wanted boring. He wanted normal. He wanted his daughter’s Christmas presents to show up where he put them.

Instead, over the last month, boxes had started vanishing from the porch. A pair of shoes. A case of his blood pressure meds. The little wrapped birthday present for his daughter that had never made it past lunch hour.

He’d thought maybe he was unlucky. Maybe porch pirates liked tidy streets.

Then Sophia Wilson took the latest box in broad daylight, in her pink blazer, and didn’t even bother to hide her face.

John clicked back to the clip and looked at the timestamp.

10:17 a.m.

He tapped the previous thefts. Same window. Ten-something. Late morning, every time.

That was when he stopped being annoyed and started being angry.