I never imagined saying, “I just ran in for a coffee.” It seems naïve, like a remark made in a crime show before a detective dismisses it. That morning, it was supposed to be 10 minutes.
I was going to see a former acquaintance who had popped in my inbox with a strange message and a location. “We should talk,” it said. A pin was dropped in a coffee shop I hadn’t gone to in years. And like an idiot—or someone with something to prove—I went.
I parked my white Kia in front, in full daylight, with busy foot traffic. It wasn’t a sketchy neighborhood, so I felt comfortable. I generally put my coat over my laptop bag on the passenger seat for safety. I didn’t this time.
Ten minutes. In-and-out.
I entered the café and looked around. No indication of my messager. To appear casual, I got an iced coffee, texted “I’m here,” and waited. Five minutes. Ten.
I received the apology. Something happened. Reschedule.”
I cursed, grabbed my drink, and left. Then I saw it.
My driver-side window was broken. Glass shards shone like confetti across the seats, floor, and cup holders in the midday sun. My stomach sank. The laptop vanished.
I stood there clutching my iced coffee like an idiot, unable to absorb anything. People passed by unaffected. A few peered at the devastation, but none stopped.
It started with fury. I shook, cursed, and kicked myself. Real terror ensued.
The laptop was for more than work.
Everything was there. Years of journaling. Never-shared personal notes. A packet of scanned documents—old tax filings, divorce custody paperwork, a half-written email to my lawyer. Another item I should have removed long ago.
A sealed court transcript PDF. From a case I wasn’t permitted to see. I had not spoken to this person in seven years. Someone I tried hard to forget.
A blue-scrubs woman passed by, double-taked, and paused as the knowledge hit.
“You drive a white Kia?” she inquired.
I nodded.
She checked around to make sure we were alone, then leaned in. “I think I saw the taker.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I drank coffee by the window. A man parked after you. He exited, glanced around, and proceeded to your car. He did not hesitate.”
Heart thudding in ears. “Did you see him?”
She nods. A tall, dark hoodie and pants, maybe mid-30s. I found his plate number.”
She handed me a napkin with it written. By the way, I phoned the cops. They promised to send someone soon.”
Thanking her, I struggled to think. Napkin in hand, I stood by my broken automobile, heart racing. Theft seemed personal.
I gave the plate number to the police after they took the report. They promised to follow up, but I knew the drill. I probably wouldn’t see the laptop again.
But I couldn’t let go.
Digging began at home. Some old tools from my time working for a private investigations agency were still available. The plate went via a favor-owed interaction. The name returned made me cringe.
Darren Varga.
No random thief. No coincidence.
I recognized him from my preserved transcripts. The same one I testified against under a pseudonym in private court. A man I hadn’t seen since New York altered my number and life.
The case was buried. No media, no paper trail, sealed. Darren shouldn’t know I was involved. He managed to do so.
That night, I hardly slept. Called my lawyer and told her everything. She was unhappy I kept the transcript and worried he would find me again. Unfortunately, I told her I was in charge. Actually, I didn’t.
A stranger texted me the next day: “You never should’ve kept that file.”
I froze. I had freezing hands. No name, no threat—just one statement. “What do you want?”
No reply.
I couldn’t wait anymore. If Darren felt he could terrify me into silence or worse, I’d turn the game. Digging deeper, I contacted another old acquaintance in the force. I was owed one. Got a current address.
So I did something dumb. Or bold. Or both.
I drove late that night to the location. The woman described a rundown residence on the outside of town with a vehicle in the driveway and lights off. I waited across the street with my phone ready to contact the cops.
11:47 PM, the garage door opened. A man emerged with a laptop bag. My laptop.
Photos by myself. So I phoned the police.
They arrived swiftly this time. Arrested him immediately. Having stolen goods. There was more.
Because they found printed, highlighted, annotated court transcripts in the residence. Notes linking names and dates. A picture wall containing my photo and others.
He followed others besides me.
That sealed case? Darren had begun reassembling it person by person. I was his final holdout.
A few days later, the case investigator phoned me. You saved a lot of people by coming forward,” she said. “He planned.”
The laptop was returned erased but undamaged. The cops stated I was lucky. It might have been worse.
But chance was irrelevant.
A terrible decision was followed by good ones. No running. Faced it. I wasn’t alone this time.
I’ve learnt that the past doesn’t always remain buried. You can escape from it or utilize it to construct something stronger when it returns.
I selected #2.
Would you?
Like and share if this makes you reconsider what you store on your gadgets and who could be observing.
