The first thing the little boy noticed was that the woman in pink did not say “Happy Halloween.”
Everyone else had.
Every parent.
Every neighbor.
Even the elderly man three houses down who had forgotten to buy candy and was handing out unopened granola bars from his pantry had laughed and apologized while telling the children to take two.
The woman in pink did not smile.
She did not compliment the costumes.
She did not pretend to be frightened by the plastic skeleton hanging from the porch railing.
She walked directly toward the orange candy bowl.
The little boy stopped halfway up the porch steps.
His younger sister bumped into him.
“What?”
He did not answer.
The porch belonged to one of the nicest houses on Willow Creek Lane.
Warm yellow string lights wrapped around the white columns.
Three carved pumpkins glowed beside the front door.
A paper ghost floated gently beneath the porch ceiling whenever the evening breeze moved through.
A small folding table had been placed near the steps so children would not have to wait for someone to answer the door.
On that table sat an enormous orange bowl overflowing with full-size candy bars.
Not miniature pieces.
Full-size.
Chocolate bars.
Peanut butter cups.
Caramel candies.
Fruit chews.
Several children had already been talking about the house all evening.
“The good candy house.”
That was what they called it.
The little boy had been waiting all week.
Now an older white woman in a bright hot-pink blouse stood directly in front of the bowl with both hands gripping its sides.
She had a short blonde bob.
Large tinted sunglasses, even though the sun had almost completely disappeared.
Several heavy gold necklaces.
Gold bracelets.
Floral-patterned pants.
A beige leather handbag hanging from one arm.
She looked less like someone celebrating Halloween and more like someone who had arrived to conduct an inspection.
Three children waited behind her.
The little boy in front wore a striped costume with denim overalls.
His younger sister wore a purple witch dress and pointed hat.
Another boy wore a black cape over an orange shirt painted like a spiderweb.
The woman lifted the candy bowl.
The children stared.
The little boy finally spoke.
“Are you taking it inside?”
The woman looked over her shoulder.
“No.”
She placed the bowl closer to herself.
Then opened her handbag.
The little boy frowned.
“What are you doing?”
The woman grabbed several full-size chocolate bars.
Dropped them into the bag.
Then another handful.
Then another.
The boy’s sister whispered:
“She’s stealing.”
The woman heard.
“I am not stealing anything.”
Her voice was sharp enough to make all three children go quiet.
She reached into the bowl again.
More candy disappeared into the handbag.
The little boy took one careful step forward.
“That’s not yours.”
The woman’s jaw tightened.
She turned.
“You need to learn not to accuse adults of things you don't understand.”
The little boy glanced toward the closed front door.
Nobody had answered.
He knew the family living there.
His parents did too.
The homeowner had coached his baseball team the previous spring.
There was no chance this woman belonged to the house.
The boy pointed at the bowl.
“But those are for kids.”
“I know exactly what they're for.”
She removed another armful.
The orange bowl was now less than half full.
Then she bent beside the table and pulled open a large reusable shopping bag she had apparently brought with her.
Inside were enormous bags of cheap individually wrapped candies.
Tiny hard sweets.
Generic fruit pieces.
Small rolls of chewy candy.
The woman tore one open.
Then dumped it into the orange bowl.
The little girl’s eyes widened.
“You changed it.”
The woman ignored her.
She added another bag.
Then another.
Within seconds, the bowl that had been filled with expensive full-size treats had been replaced with hundreds of tiny pieces.
The little boy looked toward the woman’s handbag.
It visibly bulged.
“You took all the big ones.”
The woman straightened.