I walked outside that Wednesday morning expecting to see my silver Honda Civic gleaming in the early sunlight, right where I’d parked it the night before in my assigned spot. Instead, I found an empty rectangle of pavement, a few oil stains, and a growing sense of confusion that would soon transform into something much darker. My keys were already in my hand, my work bag slung over my shoulder, my coffee getting cold in its travel mug.
I was running five minutes late, which meant I was already mentally calculating the fastest route to avoid morning traffic on I-270. But my car wasn’t there. I stopped walking, my brain struggling to process the absence.
For a moment, I just stood there stupidly, staring at the empty space like maybe if I blinked hard enough, the car would materialize. Maybe I’d parked somewhere else? Maybe I was in the wrong section of the lot?
But no—this was definitely parking spot 47, the same spot I’d been using every single day for six months, right near the entrance to my apartment building in Columbus, close enough that I could see it from my living room window. The spot was unmistakably mine, marked with fading white paint and a number that matched my lease agreement. My first coherent thought was theft.
Cars get stolen every day, even in decent neighborhoods, even from gated parking lots with security cameras. My second thought was confusion—how does someone steal a car from a secured lot at an apartment complex without anyone noticing? My third thought was rapidly escalating panic as I realized I had exactly fifteen minutes to get to work for a meeting I couldn’t miss, and my transportation had apparently vanished into thin air.
I pulled out my phone to call the apartment complex office, hoping maybe there’d been some mistake, maybe they’d towed vehicles for parking violations or maintenance I’d somehow missed notification about. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail—too early, the office didn’t open until nine. I was standing there trying to decide whether to call the police, call my insurance company, or call an Uber when my phone started buzzing in my hand.
Mom. Calling at seven-thirty in the morning, which was unusual enough to make my stomach drop even before I answered. “Hey, sweetie!” Her voice came through bright and cheerful, that particular tone of forced casualness that mothers use when they’re about to tell you something they know you won’t like but they’re hoping enthusiasm will smooth over.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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