The Bag Moves

I didn’t watch from the house—I’m not that careless. I moved my truck earlier in the evening and parked it along the curb facing Marlene’s place. Nobody in this neighborhood uses their driveway for cars. They treat their garages like storage units or a living room extension and the street like long-term airport parking. So one more vehicle wedged between a mid-size SUV and somebody’s half-dead Jeep didn’t even register.

I reclined the seat low enough to pass a drive-by glance test, but not so far I couldn’t sit up if something happened. From that angle, I had a perfect view of the porch and the bag still hanging from the gutter bracket.

To anyone else, I looked like a tired woman avoiding her family. To me, I was staking out my own neighborhood like an underpaid detective with a personal grudge.

Now, before I ever sat in the truck, I made sure the house was locked down like a vault. Every window latch clicked twice, wooden dowels tucked into the window frame so nothing was going to budge. I also tucked the kids in again under the excuse of “checking the thermostat,” but really, I wanted eyes on breathing and placement. I even dragged the old floor lamp from the hallway and angled it just so in the front window—so anyone watching from outside would assume I was still inside, reading.

The alarm’s motion sensor covered the front and back doors, and my phone was synced to alert me if it tripped. I’d also slipped my 9mm into the console and a flashlight under my thigh—just in case the night decided to escalate.

And there I was, sitting in the truck, seat laid back, watching Marlene’s house like a cop waiting for paperwork to justify her hunch.

At 9:46 p.m., movement.

Not Marlene.

A person approached from the sidewalk—hood up, head down, moving like they already knew what was waiting for them. Not a neighbor walking a dog, not someone checking their mail, not some kid kicking rocks. Purposeful.

They didn't even knock.

They didn’t look at the house.

They went straight to the bag.

I leaned forward so slowly I heard my vertebrae protest. The figure reached up, unhooked the bag with one hand, and—this is the part that made my stomach do a slow turn—they didn’t take it with them. They opened it.

Like it was theirs.

They reached inside, pulled something small out—white or light-colored, I couldn’t tell through the shadows—and slipped it into their jacket.

Then? They replaced the bag. Hung it right back like it was a coat on a rack.

And walked off the way they came.

No rush. No hesitation. No flashlight. No checking the door. No words.

Like this was just… Tuesday.

I stayed in the dark a long minute, listening to my own heartbeat and the faint hum of Denise Lawless’s television across the street.

If Marlene had hung that bag, she wasn’t using it as trash.

If she hadn’t hung it, someone else was using her house as a dead drop.

Either option was interesting. Both were dangerous.

I picked up my phone again and added a second line under my timestamp:

“Someone retrieved something. Approached from sidewalk. Didn’t knock.”

Then I read it again and thought: This is how it starts, isn’t it? Not with a scream or a clue. Just a bag and a bad feeling.

Welcome to Suburbia Unfiltered.