Like I Said, Simple.

I went to your house. But not for you. For your things. Your things that had become my things. I waited across the street until you left your house. How you always did at ten o’clock at night.

But this time I knew where you were going.

As your car pulled out, the rear lights just missed my face. Perfectly planned. And then I casually walked to the front of your house. Like I always used to do. No one in this neighborhood knows what happened, why would I have caused any suspicion?

I grabbed the spare key under the planter that held your mother’s tree. How silly of you to not have moved it. How silly of me to have thought you would.

It was really that simple. I stepped into your house, climbed the stairs, not worrying about the creaks in the hardwood, opened your bedroom door, and grabbed your grandmother’s sapphire engagement ring from your sock drawer.

Then I heard a noise. It was coming from him; your brother. I could tell he was drunk. So I opened the window, crouched onto the landing, and jumped onto the side porch.

Then I left.

Like I said, simple.