She Stole My Milk. Then Her Lawyer Sent a Demand Letter.

"Are you absolutely sure?" I asked the representative, gripping my phone tighter. "Because I was out there at 6:15 AM, and the cooler was empty."

"Our drivers use GPS tracking and take a confirmation photo for every drop-off to prevent false refund requests," the rep explained patiently. "I can email you the proof of delivery right now."

"Please do," I said, a knot forming in my stomach.

I refreshed my inbox until the email popped up. I clicked the attachment, expecting to see a blurry picture of an empty porch. Instead, there was a crystal-clear image of two frosty glass bottles of milk sitting perfectly inside my open cooler.

The timestamp read 5:46 AM.

"Okay, I see the picture," I told the rep, my mind racing. "Someone must have walked up and taken it right after the driver left."

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Bennett. Since the drop-off is verified, our liability ends there. We cannot offer a refund for stolen goods," she said sympathetically. "I recommend filing a police report."

"Thanks for your help," I sighed and hung up.

I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the photo on my phone screen. Who would steal milk at six in the morning in such a quiet, upscale neighborhood?

I zoomed in on the picture, examining the background of my porch. The morning dew on the grass was thick. As I panned the image toward the bottom right corner, something caught my eye.

Right at the edge of the grass, leading away from my porch, the dew had been disturbed. There was a clear set of footprints.

I squinted, zooming in as far as the pixels would allow.

They weren't the heavy boots of a delivery driver. They were the distinct, narrow imprints of small, sensible walking shoes.

My heart skipped a beat as I followed the trajectory of the footprints in the photo. They didn't lead toward the street or the sidewalk.

They led directly across my lawn, cutting straight through the bushes, and pointing right toward Beatrice Montgomery's house.