Life in my quiet cul-de-sac was predictable until my online orders started disappearing. At first, I blamed delivery glitches. But when my brand-new Kindle vanished, I became obsessed. The only new variable? Tessa, the stylish, distant neighbor across the street. She’d arrived just as the thefts began. I even left cookies to introduce myself she never acknowledged them.

One night, I stayed up and saw her. At 1:47 a.m., she walked straight to my porch and took the package like it was hers. Calm. Methodical. That was the last straw. So I set a trap a glitter bomb in a fake Amazon box. I watched her take it, but the next day, she looked completely normal. No dye. No guilt. Furious, I confronted her and called the police.

Tessa let the officers search her home without protest. Upstairs? Spotless. But in the basement, we found them: all eight of my packages lined up neatly, unopened. Even the glitter bomb. Tessa looked horrified. “I don’t remember taking these,” she whispered. Then she admitted it she had a history of sleepwalking triggered by stress. She thought it was behind her. Moving alone had brought it back. She wasn’t a thief. She was sick. And somehow, my anger melted into understanding.

A week later, she showed up with a homemade pie and a heartfelt apology. We talked for hours. Since then, we’ve shared Sunday movie nights and sunflower bouquets left on doorsteps. My packages don’t disappear anymore but even if they did, I’d know where to look. Sometimes, what’s stolen isn’t the story. It’s what’s found that really matters.