Chapter 3 — Trey stutters and denies owning the green jacket — Then Caleb inspects the delivery boxes stacked nearby
Trey crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
“I am telling you the truth,” Trey muttered, glaring down at his sneakers. “That green jacket is not mine.”
“Then whose is it?” Caleb demanded, turning back to face his son. “It was lying right on our front porch, piled on top of these boxes.”
“I don’t know,” Trey insisted, shaking his head. “A guy walked by about an hour ago. He dropped his stuff and kept going. I didn’t pay attention.”
Vincent looked skeptical, his gaze shifting from Trey’s defensive posture to the stack of cardboard shipping boxes resting against the porch railing.
“That is a lot of boxes for an accidental drop,” Vincent noted.
Caleb stepped over to the nearest stack of parcels.
He bent down to read the shipping label taped to the top cardboard flap.
The name printed in bold black ink was entirely unfamiliar.
“Jonathan Vance,” Caleb read aloud. “That is not anyone who lives on this street.”
“Let me see that,” Vincent said, stepping closer.
Vincent crouched down beside Caleb and checked the tracking barcode printed beneath the name.
“The delivery address on this label lists a house four blocks away on Maple Avenue,” Vincent observed.
“Why would packages meant for Maple Avenue end up piled on my porch?” Caleb asked.
“There is only one way to find out,” Vincent said.
Caleb reached down and grabbed a utility knife from his back pocket.
He flicked the blade open with a sharp click.
With a firm, deliberate motion, Caleb sliced right through the heavy packaging tape sealing the top box.
He pulled the cardboard flaps apart.
Inside lay an array of high-end industrial power tools, wrapped tightly in bubble wrap.
None of the equipment looked cheap.
Trey watched the inspection with wide eyes, taking a half-step backward toward the front door.
“Neither of us ordered professional construction tools,” Caleb said, pulling a heavy cordless drill out of the box to inspect the serial number stamped on the handle.
Vincent reached into the open box and pulled out a crumpled shipping receipt buried beneath the bubble wrap.
He unfolded the paper and scanned the printed text at the top.
“Look at the return address on this receipt,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave as he pointed a finger at the paper.