I slammed the glass door open, sprinting to the patio the second Brenda’s sneakers hit the pavement outside my gate.
I grabbed the aluminum skimmer pole and plunged it into the deep end, hooking the heavy, sinking fabric. The water around the white clothes was already violently bubbling, turning a sickening, cloudy crimson. *That* was what she had poured into the bag before tossing it. It wasn’t just laundry; it was a highly corrosive acid designed to dissolve whatever the fabric was wrapped around.
I hauled the dripping, smoking mess onto the tiles. Coughing from the fumes, I nudged the dissolving shirts with the pole. They fell apart, revealing a heavy-duty, waterproof Pelican case.
Suddenly, a deafening crash echoed from next door. Sirens wailed, cutting through the quiet suburban morning. I peeked over the wooden fence. An armored SWAT vehicle was parked on Brenda’s lawn, and heavily armed agents were aggressively breaching her front door.
Brenda hadn’t been trying to vandalize my pool. She was desperately ditching evidence before the raid.
I looked down at the lockbox. The acid had melted the outer clasps. Inside, sealed in pristine vacuum bags, were perfectly stacked brick-sized bundles of uncut diamonds, sitting right next to a blinking GPS tracker. She was using my pool as a blind drop for a heist.
My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from an unknown number: *“Hide the box for 48 hours. You get 10%. Don’t do anything stupid.”*
I looked at my bubbling red pool, the feds tearing Brenda’s house apart, and the multi-million dollar fortune sitting at my feet. I opened my camera roll, synced the video of Brenda’s terrified face to a secure cloud, and typed my reply.
*“I’m keeping 100%. And if you ever step in my yard again, the FBI gets the video.”*
I stomped the GPS tracker to pieces, kicked the fragments into the acid, and locked my door.