I beat her on the basketball hoop because the architectural rules specifically allowed portable recreational equipment.
I lost the bench fight because I did not care enough to spend another week emailing.
That was the relationship.
Annoying.
Petty.
Predictable.
So when the air filters disappeared, I did not think of her.
I filed a delivery complaint.
The carrier told me the package had been delivered correctly.
The retailer sent a replacement as a courtesy.
I moved on.
Nine days later, a second package vanished.
This one mattered.
My fourteen-year-old daughter spent alternate weeks with me and her mother. She had been saving birthday money for a pair of noise-canceling headphones. I ordered them while she was at her mother’s house so I could surprise her when she returned Friday.
The package arrived Wednesday at 3:42.
I had a video conference until four.
At 4:06, I walked downstairs.
Gone.
My stomach tightened.
I opened the doorbell-camera application.
The delivery appeared first.
Driver walked up.
Placed the box.
Photographed it.
Left.
Eight minutes later, a white SUV stopped at the curb.
The HOA president stepped out.
She was wearing a bright coral jacket and white pants.
She walked directly toward my porch.
Not looking around.
Not hesitating.
She climbed the steps.
Looked down at the box.
Then looked toward my front window.
My doorbell camera was obvious.
She knew it was there.
She picked up the package anyway.
Then she carried it to her SUV and drove away.
CHAPTER 27
I watched the video twice.
The second time, I felt something colder than anger.
Because she did not look like a thief.
Thieves hurry.
Thieves glance over shoulders.
Thieves understand that what they are doing must remain hidden.
The HOA president moved like she was collecting something that already belonged to her.
I called.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Good afternoon.”
“Where’s my package?”
Silence.
Then:
“Excuse me?”
“You took a package off my porch eighteen minutes ago.”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“I have video.”
Another pause.
Her voice changed.
Less polite.
“That parcel was creating a compliance concern.”
I thought I had misunderstood.
“A what?”
“A compliance concern.”
“It was on my porch.”
“Visible deliveries left unattended can create an attractive nuisance.”
I almost laughed.
“Bring it back.”
“We have had package-theft complaints.”
“You just committed one.”
Her tone hardened.
“Do not use inflammatory language.”
“You walked onto my property and took something addressed to me.”
“As HOA president, I am permitted to address temporary exterior hazards.”
“No, you are not.”
“I suggest you read your governing documents.”
“I suggest you return my daughter’s headphones.”
Silence.
Then:
“The parcel will be available from the HOA office tomorrow between nine and eleven.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You bring it back.”
“I do not make personal deliveries.”
“You made a personal pickup.”
She hung up.
I stood in my kitchen holding the phone.