The next day, when it happened again, I watched the footage… and was stunned to see—
my neighbor.
Sweet, elderly Mr. Cummings. The same man who always waved when I brought in groceries. The one who gave me tomatoes from his garden. He was in a robe, socks pulled up to his knees, and leaning over with tweezers and—another toothpick.
He jammed it into my lock, glanced around like a cartoon villain, then casually walked back to his house as if he hadn’t just sabotaged my front door.
I was floored. I texted my brother: “It was Mr. Cummings. WHAT.”
His reply: “Go ask him. Play dumb. See what he says.”
So I did. I knocked on his door with the sweetest smile I could fake.
“Hi, Mr. Cummings! Weird question, but… do you know anything about someone messing with my lock?”
He blinked fast. “Oh, goodness no, dear. What kind of person would do such a thing?”
His hands were trembling. He wouldn’t look me in the eye.
I nodded, thanked him, and left—but not before casually saying,
“Strange. I guess the hidden camera will help figure it out.”
His face turned ghost-white. Busted.
The next morning, a handwritten letter was slipped under my door.
It said:
“I’m sorry. I thought your house was being used for illicit activities. Strange cars. Noise. I just wanted to discourage people. I realize now I was wrong. Please forgive an old man’s paranoia.”
I showed my brother, who laughed for five straight minutes.
But I wasn’t mad anymore. In fact, I left him a thank-you card…
with a brand-new lock and a pack of decaf tea.