The moment the wealthy blonde woman shoved me backward and hurled my cardboard package onto the concrete driveway, I knew she had made the biggest mistake of her life. The box struck the ground with a heavy thud, split open along one corner, and released a spectacular splash of bright purple dye across her expensive electric-blue blazer, perfectly tailored white trousers, and polished pink fingernails. She screamed, stumbled backward in her designer heels, and stared at her hands as though the color had appeared out of nowhere. I stood barefoot on my front porch, wearing nothing but a white bath towel around my waist, watching the woman who had stolen from me for four months finally receive a surprise she couldn't explain away.
"What did you do to me?" she shrieked.
I glanced at the purple streak running down the gold chain around her neck.
"I didn't throw that box, ma'am."
She rubbed her hands against her white trousers. The purple marks spread across the fabric, making the damage look even worse.
"You put something in there!"
I nodded toward the package lying open on the driveway.
"You mean the package with my name and address on it?"
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
I held up my phone.
"That was a decoy. And my cameras have been recording every time you helped yourself to my deliveries."
For the first time since she'd appeared in our neighborhood, the HOA president stopped talking.
She was fifty-five years old, with a sleek platinum-blonde bob, enormous black designer sunglasses, and a wardrobe that seemed designed to make ordinary suburban sidewalks feel like fashion runways. Her electric-blue blazer had exaggerated shoulders, her gold necklace looked heavy enough to anchor a boat, and her expensive handbag was clutched beneath one arm.
She was also, apparently, a thief.
And I finally had the evidence to prove it.
What she didn't know was that the purple dye was only the beginning. Within three weeks, investigators would discover that dozens of missing neighborhood packages had been connected to a supposed HOA safety program. Within two months, the association's financial records would expose payments to a business almost nobody knew existed. And before the summer ended, the woman who had spent years ordering homeowners around would be sitting in a hearing room explaining why property belonging to other people had been stored, resold, and billed back to the very residents who had reported it missing.
But none of that had happened yet.
At that moment, she was simply standing in my driveway, covered in purple stains, trying desperately to make her expensive appearance look respectable again.
She lifted her sunglasses onto her head.
Her eyes narrowed.