Because the police officer had suggested I leave it sealed until they could determine why there were two labels.
Carl shook his head.
“Woman's always been trouble.”
I looked at him.
“Really?”
“You're new here. You don't know.”
I had lived on Maple Grove for eight months.
Margaret had been a constant irritation for almost every one of them.
She complained when kids left bicycles on the sidewalk.
She called the city because Carl built his backyard shed two feet beyond some property line.
She yelled at teenagers for parking in front of her house.
Last Christmas, someone told me she'd actually reported a family for hanging lights “after quiet hours.”
Everyone called her Karen.
Some people called her worse.
And honestly?
After that morning, I understood why.
“She's probably losing it,” Carl continued. “Old age. You know.”
I looked toward Margaret's house.
The curtains were closed.
“Maybe.”
Carl lowered his voice.
“You know she had a son?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Yeah. Tommy.”
“What happened to him?”
His expression changed.
“Drug overdose. Long time ago.”
I said nothing.
“Poor kid was always in trouble. Margaret was a nightmare even then. Used to chase him around the neighborhood screaming.”
Carl sighed.
“Sad story.”
Then he walked away.
I stood in my driveway, staring at Margaret's house.
I wanted to hate her.
That would have been easy.
She had taken my package.
Thrown it in the trash.
Lied.
Begged me not to call the police.
And apparently, she had spent years making everyone around her miserable.
But I couldn't forget the way she'd looked at that SUV.
Or the way she'd said, They found it.
That evening, someone knocked on my door.
I checked through the peephole.
Margaret.
I almost didn't answer.
Almost.
When I opened the door, she was holding a white envelope.
Her eyes were swollen.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
She nodded as if she'd expected that.
“I deserve that.”
“Then why are you here?”
She held out the envelope.
“Give me the package.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Daniel.”
“Do you have any idea what that package is?”
She swallowed.
“Yes.”
That made me freeze.
“What?”
“I know what you think it is.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, I do.”
I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me.
“Tell me.”
Margaret looked down at the envelope.
“Your mother's pendant.”
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know that?”
She closed her eyes.
“Because I was the one who ordered it.”
The world seemed to stop.
“What?”
“I ordered the replacement.”
“My mother died six months ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how—”
“I didn't order it for her.”
My voice dropped.
“Who did you order it for?”
She opened her eyes.
“For you.”
I stared at her.
Then I started laughing.
Not because it was funny.
Because I genuinely thought I might lose my mind.
“You stole my package to give me something you ordered for me?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She flinched.
I pointed at the envelope.
“What is that?”
“Open it.”
I took it.
Inside was a printed receipt.
A jewelry store.
My mother's pendant.
The exact custom order.
The same amount I had paid.
The same date.
But the purchaser's name was Margaret Holloway.
I stared at it.
“What the hell?”
“I found out about your order.”
“How?”
She hesitated.
“That's not important.”
“It is to me.”
She looked away.
“Everything I did was wrong.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“I know.”
I felt the anger returning.
“Then start talking.”
Margaret suddenly grabbed my sleeve.
“Do you remember the package delivery notification?”
“Yes.”
“It was delivered to your porch at 10:14 in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“You weren't home.”
“So?”
“I was.”
I pulled my arm away.
“You took it.”
“Yes.”
“At least you're finally admitting it.”
“I took it because I thought I could fix this before you found out.”
“Fix what?”
She stared at the envelope.
Then whispered, “Someone used your address.”
My body went still.
“What?”
“Someone sent something to you under my name.”
“The second label.”
She nodded.
“And someone replaced the shipping label.”
“With mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Margaret looked toward the dark street.
“Because whoever did it wanted you to open that package.”
A chill moved through me.
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why were you so desperate to throw it away?”
Her eyes filled again.
“Because I know what happened the last time someone opened a package they weren't supposed to.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
She whispered:
“My son.”
Before I could ask another question, headlights swept across the street.
Margaret froze.
A black SUV turned slowly onto Maple Grove.
The same one.
She grabbed my hand.
“Don't let them see you with me.”
“What?”
“Daniel, please.”
The SUV slowed.
My anger exploded.
I pulled my hand away.
“No. No more secrets.”
I reached into my pocket.
Pulled out my phone.
And began recording.
The SUV stopped directly in front of Margaret's house.
The rear window lowered.
I couldn't see the driver's face.
But I heard a man's voice.
“Mrs. Holloway.”
Margaret looked like she might collapse.
“Go inside,” I told her.
“Daniel—”
“Inside.”
The voice from the SUV spoke again.
“You should have thrown it away.”
Every muscle in my body went cold.
Then the window rolled up.
The SUV drove away.
Margaret began sobbing.
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And for the first time, I understood something.
Maybe she wasn't the villain.
Maybe she was just the person who had spent so long being afraid that she'd become impossible to like.
But that didn't excuse what she'd done.
Not yet.
“Tomorrow morning,” I told her.
She looked up.
“Tomorrow, you tell me everything.”
Chapter 3: What Her Son Left Behind
Margaret's kitchen looked exactly like I expected.