Cash on Delivery: The Neighbor Next Door Snapped Chapter 1

Six months into my new apartment, and out of all the milk I’d ordered for half a year, I’d only managed to drink five.

The rest had all vanished down the gullet of the elderly woman next door.

I installed a camera; she showed up in a mask.

I woke up early to grab it; she was even earlier.

Finally, I resorted to my last trick: cash on delivery.

I thought my troubles were over.

Seven days later, the building manager stood at my door, his face grim.

He handed me a piece of paper. Four words on it turned me to stone.

* * *

I’d moved into this apartment complex six months ago. To catch a few extra minutes of sleep each morning, I’d subscribed to a fresh milk delivery service. The milkman would drop a bottle into the milk box by my door before six AM daily. My usual wake-up time was seven-thirty. After I’d washed up, I’d open the milk box.

Empty.

At first, I assumed the milkman had forgotten. I called to inquire. He insisted, quite adamantly, that he’d delivered it. He’d been delivering to this complex for three years, he said, never once made a mistake. Perhaps a neighbor’s mischievous child had taken it, I thought.

The next day, the milk box was empty again. The third day, still nothing. I was getting annoyed. Three consecutive days – this wasn't normal. I told the milkman, “Please send me a message tomorrow after you’ve delivered the milk.” He agreed.

The fourth morning, my phone’s vibration woke me before six AM. It was the milkman’s message: “Milk delivered.” I immediately shot out of bed and rushed to the door.

I opened it.

The milk box was empty.

The motion-sensor light outside was still glowing faintly. A lingering chill in the air suggested someone had been there just moments ago. This meant someone had taken the milk in the mere seconds between me receiving the message and opening my door. Who would be so utterly bored? And every single day?

I decided to install a camera. I ordered it online, and it arrived the next day. I mounted it in a discreet corner above my door, positioning it to clearly capture my doorway and the area directly opposite. I connected it to my phone app and set up motion detection alerts. After all that, I felt a good deal more at ease. I wanted to see just who this mysterious individual was, so obsessed with a single bottle of my milk.

The fifth morning, my phone buzzed precisely at 5:50 AM. It was a motion detection push notification. I immediately opened the app. A familiar figure appeared on the live feed. It was old Mrs. Davison, my next-door neighbor. She was retired and usually very friendly. When I first moved in, she’d even brought me a plate of dumplings. Seeing me, a young woman, always alone, she’d frequently fuss over me.

“Skylar, you work too hard; you need to take care of yourself.”

“Skylar, are you seeing anyone?”

I couldn’t believe it was her.

On the screen, she was wearing pajamas, her hair disheveled. A large blue face mask covered almost half of her face. She walked up to my door, skillfully opened my milk box, glanced left and right, then took out the milk bottle. She quickly turned and went back into her own apartment. The entire process took less than ten seconds.

I stared at my phone screen, utterly stunned. It really was her. I rewound the video. She seemed to know where the camera was, deliberately avoiding its direct gaze. The mask was also for concealment. She knew this was stealing.

A surge of anger, unidentifiable, rose within me. I thought of her as a kind, elder neighbor. She was treating me like an idiot. A bottle of milk wasn’t worth much, but I couldn’t swallow this insult. I saved the video. I had the evidence.

But confronting her directly? I hesitated. She was a neighbor, after all. If we fell out, it would be incredibly awkward seeing each other every day. Plus, she was old. What if I said something too harsh and she had a heart attack? I decided to give her another chance. I planned to beat her to it.