“Could they have stolen anything at all?” The police officer asked. 

“Not that I am aware of,” I said, my body still shaking. 

“You sure?” He asked for at least the fifth time.  Like the fact I was a woman was going to change the fact on whether or not a few small town kids had broken into my house.  Apparently, the fact I was a woman and could live by myself was a problem.   

No, the door was not unlocked.  No, I didn’t know them.  No, I hadn’t made anybody mad (I had only moved here two weeks ago and still didn’t really know anyone).  I had only been gone for ten minutes because I had forgot to buy eggs at the grocery store for the cake I was making.  By the time I got back, two young men had broken a window in my front door and were rummaging through a few of the boxes I had yet to unpack. 

When I opened the front door they ran like hell out the back door.  I wondered if they had been watching the house and had been waiting for me to leave.  They must have thought I was going to be gone for much longer than the quick dash to the store.  What I didn’t tell the officer was that I had followed them home and knew exactly how I was going to enact my revenge.  Revenge, after all, was why I had to leave California. 


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