My husband and I have our phones on silent until at least 10 a.m. on weekends. So, we’re sleeping.
Suddenly I wake up to the sound of my husband pulling on shorts and a T-shirt. Immediately the intercom rings. I ask him, “Who is it?” He replies, “Police.”
It turns out they were downstairs asking to speak with either one of us.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, wondering what on earth could’ve happened. We hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t heard any noises during the night—nothing out of the ordinary. My husband buzzed them in and told me to stay in the bedroom just in case.
Not because we were hiding anything, but because we were still in pajamas and honestly, it just felt like the kind of situation where fewer people being involved was better. I stood near the door, trying to hear what they were saying. The officers asked him a few questions about a silver Toyota parked outside.
We didn’t own a Toyota. Ours was a blue Honda, and it was parked right where we left it the night before. Then one of the officers said, “The plates are registered to this address.” That was weird.
Very weird. My husband glanced back at me, confused. “Sir, can we come in for a minute?” they asked.
That was the moment I got dressed quicker than I ever have in my life. They stepped inside and explained that the car had been reported abandoned, partially blocking a neighbor’s driveway, and when they ran the plates, our address came up. It was stolen two nights ago from a parking lot across town, and someone had apparently switched plates.
We had no idea why our address was linked to it. The officers weren’t accusing us of anything, but they needed to check our security camera footage and asked us if we’d seen or heard anything unusual. My husband invited them in and pulled up the footage from the night before.
Around 2:43 a.m., a blurry figure in a hoodie could be seen walking near our driveway. A few seconds later, the figure appeared again—this time placing something in our recycling bin. The officers asked if we could open it up with them.
So, still in a daze, we followed them outside. Inside the recycling bin, beneath a few cardboard boxes and plastic bottles, was a brown paper bag. One of the officers pulled it out carefully with gloves.
I couldn’t believe it. Inside were several envelopes—thick, heavy envelopes. They opened one.
It was packed with $100 bills. We all just stood there for a second. I felt my stomach drop.
The officer counted one envelope. $10,000. There were six of them in the bag.
Sixty thousand dollars. Just sitting in our recycling bin. We didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up.
The officers immediately called it in and started treating the area like a crime scene. They took the bag, the footage, and our statements. Then they left, saying they’d be in touch.
After they were gone, we just sat at the kitchen table, staring at each other. It was one of those surreal moments where life feels like a movie. We kept asking ourselves the same questions.
Who would leave that much money in our bin? And why us? The rest of that Saturday felt like we were walking on glass.
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