My hands went cold.
That wasn’t random—it was deliberate. Someone was enjoying this.
I brought the note to HR. Colin looked more concerned but still cautious.
“We can’t accuse anyone without proof,” he said.
“Then find proof,” I replied.
The theft happened again the next day.
That evening, I stayed late, frustration settling into something sharper—strategy. I considered cameras, trackers, even dye. Then I thought about food—what I liked and what most people avoided.
Avocado.
Not dangerous. Just messy.
It stains everything—bread, fingers, paper. It’s impossible to eat neatly.
So on Monday, I made a thick avocado sandwich—ripe, layered generously, impossible to handle cleanly—and placed it in the fridge.
At 12:07, it was gone.
At 12:19, someone screamed.
When I stepped into the hallway, I already knew the answer was waiting.
In the conference room stood Melissa Kane from business development—perfectly polished, usually composed. But now, avocado was everywhere.
Green smeared across her blouse. Streaked along her jaw. Spread across the conference table—and worst of all, across important merger documents next to her open laptop.
She saw me.
For a split second, recognition flashed in her eyes.
Then she made her mistake.
“She did this on purpose,” Melissa said, pointing at me. “She left disgusting food to trap people.”
The room fell silent.
A vice president and two clients stared, not just at the mess—but at her accusation.
I stepped forward. “You took my lunch.”
“I thought it was shared,” she said.
“With my name on it?”
Everyone looked at the container in her hand.
