A Thief Had Been Stealing from My Store for Weeks, and When I Finally Caught Him, I Found a Photo of Myself in His Wallet – Story of the Day
The bell above my store’s door jingled, a sound that used to bring a smile but now set my nerves on edge. For weeks, someone had been stealing from my small hardware store in Willow Creek. It started with little things—screws, a cheap wrench, a roll of tape. I thought it was kids, maybe, or careless inventory. But then pricier items vanished: a cordless drill, a paint sprayer, even a shiny new socket set. The losses were eating into my already thin margins. I couldn’t afford to keep losing stock, so I installed a camera behind the counter, hidden in a corner where no one would notice.
I’m Ellie Harper, a third-generation shopkeeper. Harper’s Hardware has been in my family since my granddad opened it in 1952. It’s not just a store; it’s my legacy. Every creak of the floorboards, every dent in the counter, tells a story. Losing it to theft or debt wasn’t an option. I started staying late, poring over grainy footage after closing, determined to catch the culprit.
The thief was clever. He struck during busy hours, blending into the crowd of contractors and DIYers. The camera caught glimpses—a slim figure in a dark hoodie, always keeping his face turned from the lens. He moved like he knew the store’s layout, slipping items into his jacket with practiced ease. I studied the tapes until my eyes burned, but his face remained a mystery.
Three weeks in, I got a break. The footage showed him lingering near the power tools, his hand brushing a cordless screwdriver. I recognized the jacket—green, with a tear on the left sleeve. The next day, I spotted that same jacket in the store. My heart raced as I watched him from behind the counter, pretending to ring up a customer. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with dark hair and a nervous energy. He grabbed a pack of drill bits and tucked them under his arm.
“Hey!” I shouted, stepping out. He froze, then bolted for the door. I’m no athlete, but adrenaline carried me after him. I caught his sleeve just outside, yanking him back. “Not this time,” I growled. He struggled, but I held firm until a passing customer, a burly plumber named Mike, helped pin him down. We called the sheriff.
Sheriff Daniels arrived, a tired man with a mustache like a push broom. He cuffed the thief, who stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ground. “Got anything on you?” Daniels asked, patting him down. He pulled out a worn leather wallet and flipped it open. My breath caught. There, tucked in the clear plastic sleeve, was a photo of me—smiling, younger, standing outside the store. It was from the local paper, a feature on the store’s 60th anniversary. The headline was clipped out, but my face stared back, creased from being carried too long.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, my voice shaking. The thief looked up, and for the first time, I saw his eyes—green, like mine, with the same faint crow’s feet at the corners. He didn’t answer. Daniels bagged the
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