"Do you have any idea how much work goes into keeping this community respectable?"
I stared.
"Taking my deliveries?"
"Protecting residents from unsightly clutter and theft."
I looked toward the shipping label.
"My name is on that box."
She shrugged.
"I can see that."
"Then you know it belongs to me."
She stepped closer.
"You're being difficult again."
I remained near the doorway.
"I'm asking you to return my property."
Her expression hardened.
"Move."
I looked at her.
"You're the one standing on my porch."
She glanced toward the street.
Then she raised her voice.
"Get out of my way! This package belongs to me!"
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
"Really? Then why was it on my porch?"
Her face reddened.
She stepped forward and shoved me with one hand.
I stumbled backward against the doorframe.
The towel remained secure, but I had to catch myself to avoid falling.
I looked up.
"Don't touch me."
She sneered.
"Oh, grow up."
Then she swung the cardboard box away from her body and threw it toward the driveway.
It hit the concrete.
The corner split.
And a bright purple splash spread across the white trousers and electric-blue blazer she'd been wearing so proudly.
For one glorious second, she didn't understand what had happened.
Then she screamed.
"What is this?"
I looked at the purple dye on her clothes.
Then at the box.
The marking color was harmless, but the stain was spectacular. It coated one sleeve, streaked the front of her blazer, and left patches across both legs of her white trousers.
She dropped her handbag.
A tissue packet fell onto the concrete.
She stared at her hands.
Then she began rubbing them frantically.
The purple spread.
"Get it off!"
I remained beside the doorway.
"I'd recommend not rubbing it into your clothes."
She looked toward me.
Her eyes widened.
"You did this!"
I took a slow breath.
"You threw the box."
She pointed a purple finger at my face.
"You deliberately trapped me!"
I held up my phone.
"No, ma'am. I documented you taking a parcel that wasn't yours."
Then I showed her the recordings.
The first missing package.
The headphones.
The delivery from behind the planter.
The box she'd just thrown.
Her expression changed with every clip.
Finally, she lowered her hand.
For a moment, she looked at the camera above the front door.
Then she whispered, "How much did you record?"
I met her eyes.
"Enough to ask some very serious questions."
She stared.
I continued.
"That was a decoy. My cameras caught you taking packages from me for months."
Her lips parted.
She looked toward the purple stain running down her necklace.