You hear the sharp click of heels on pavement, then the deliberate pause of someone who is definitely not looking at your house. You glance out the window. Vanessa Cole is on her front porch, phone pressed to her ear, scanning the street with the practiced disinterest of a woman who has never once made eye contact with you on purpose.

But her gaze keeps drifting — just barely — to your doorstep. Specifically, to the spot where the plain cardboard box sat twenty minutes ago.

She ends a call that clearly never connected, tucks her phone into her jacket pocket, and strides across the lawn toward your walkway. Her heels click to a stop at the edge of your property line — close enough to talk, far enough to pretend she isn't.

"Listen," she says, not quite looking at you, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. "I believe there was a — misdelivery. A package. Sent here by mistake. If you could just... retrieve it, I'll be out of your way."

Her jaw is tight. Her smile is the kind a realtor gives to a condemned house.