I did not own any machinery powerful enough to explain it.
The representative suggested checking appliances.
I scheduled a technician.
He found nothing unusual.
I changed the thermostat.
The next month’s bill was worse.
Two hundred seventy-one dollars.
Now I was angry.
Not dramatically angry.
The dangerous kind.
The quiet kind that makes a retired school secretary find a notebook.
I started writing down meter readings.
Morning.
Evening.
Before bed.
After breakfast.
For five nights, nothing made sense.
Then, on a Tuesday at one twelve in the morning, I woke because my cat knocked a book from the nightstand.
I went to the kitchen for water.
Through the window above the sink, I saw a faint green light near the side of my garage.
At first, I assumed it was one of my outdoor decorations.
Then I remembered I had turned them off.
I went outside in my robe.
A thick charging cable ran from the weatherproof outlet on my garage wall, beneath the hedge, through the gap in our fence, and into Vanessa Cole’s electric SUV.
I stood there for several seconds.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because after two months of inspecting appliances, arguing with the utility company, and wondering whether my house had developed some electrical disease, the answer was parked fifteen feet away.
Vanessa was stealing electricity from me.
I did not unplug the cable.
Not yet.
Instead, I took photographs.
Wide view.
Cable.
Outlet.
