We crept along the fence line, Jason holding the phone low so the glow would not show. The signal stopped beside an old wooden shed at the back of Gloria’s yard, half hidden by overgrown hydrangeas. The padlock hung open. Jason pushed the door gently, and the beam of his flashlight swept across the floor. My breath caught. Stacked from floor to ceiling were dozens of Amazon boxes, many addressed to people on our street.

Then a floorboard creaked behind us. Gloria stood at the corner of the shed in her bathrobe, holding a heavy flashlight, her face pale. “You should not be here,” she hissed. Jason stepped in front of me. On the table inside lay my tracker, still blinking green, next to a small notebook. I picked it up, and the first page was a list of names and addresses, with dates and dollar amounts beside each one.