My neighbor, Denise, had moved in a few years earlier. From the start, she found fault with everything—the leaves from my oak tree, the hum of my mower, even the scent of my jasmine in bloom. She often lingered by the fence, watching my yard a little too closely.
She frequently commented on my harvest. “That’s a lot for one person,” she’d remark. Or, “It would be a shame if it all went to waste.” I used to dismiss her tone as harmless curiosity. Now, it felt different.
One sleepless night, I sat in the dark by my window overlooking the backyard. Hours passed before I saw movement near the gate.
The motion light snapped on.
There she was.
Denise moved confidently between the rows, a basket hooked over her arm, cutting and gathering as if the garden belonged to her. The sight felt unreal, like watching someone walk uninvited through my living room.
Anger rose in my chest, sharp and steady. But I stayed inside. I wanted proof.
The next day, my grandson helped me install a small security camera pointed directly at the beds. Then I prepared a simple but effective plan. I lightly dusted the plants with flour mixed with bright green food coloring. Anyone who touched them would carry visible evidence away with them.
That night, the camera captured everything.
The following morning, I spotted Denise in her driveway unloading groceries. Green streaks stained her sleeves and hands.
