I’m sitting on the couch, staring at Pandora’s phone where she left it on the coffee table. It isn’t ringing. It isn’t buzzing. It’s just… sitting there. I’m not trying to snoop—honestly. My eyes just happen to land on the wallpaper. It’s a picture of the two of us from last weekend’s hike. Nice picture. Except… I’m pretty sure it was taken with my old camera. Not my phone. Not her phone. My camera. The one that’s been sitting in the hall closet collecting dust ever since we upgraded our phones. At least… I thought it had been.
Now I’m trying to remember the last time I actually saw it. See, this is how trouble starts. Normal people would think, Huh. That’s a nice picture. My brain immediately asks, Wait… where’s the camera? So I quietly wander over to the closet. The camera case is there. The battery charger is there. The instruction manual is still folded exactly the way I left it. The camera? Gone.
Okay. Now I have questions. Did Pandora borrow it? Maybe. Did she tell me? Apparently not. Would I have said yes if she’d asked? Absolutely. So why not ask? That’s the part that bothers me. Not because of the camera, but because people who aren’t doing anything strange usually don’t forget to mention they’re borrowing your stuff. Right? Unless she did mention it. I have the memory of a goldfish whenever somebody talks to me before my first cup of coffee. Maybe she said, “Hey, I’m borrowing your camera,” and I nodded while trying to butter toast. That’s entirely possible.
Still… the wallpaper keeps bothering me. It’s a really good picture. Almost too good. I don’t remember posing for it. I don’t remember her taking it. I don’t remember anyone else being there. Who took the picture? Now I’m annoyed because instead of solving one mystery, I’ve somehow created a second one.
I check the closet again, as though the camera might have magically reappeared while I was thinking. No luck. Which means one of three things happened. Pandora borrowed it. I misplaced it. Or the camera finally achieved sentience and wandered off to pursue its dreams. Honestly, the first option seems the most likely… probably.
I sit back down, and Mr. Whiskers immediately jumps into my lap with the confidence of someone who contributes absolutely nothing toward the mortgage. He looks at me. Then he looks at Pandora’s phone. Then he looks back at me. You know, cats have terrible timing. If they’d stop staring dramatically at things, people wouldn’t constantly think they’re hiding secrets. Now I’m wondering if he knows where the camera is. No… that’s ridiculous. He’s a cat. Still, he does spend an awful lot of time following Pandora around the house. Maybe because she feeds him. Or maybe because she has the camera. No. Food. Definitely food. Probably.
Then I remember something. Last Tuesday Pandora came home carrying a canvas tote bag. I asked what she’d been doing, and she casually said, “Just running errands.” Perfectly normal answer. Completely reasonable. But I also remember seeing what looked like my old camera strap sticking out of the bag. Didn’t I? Or was it one of those reusable shopping bag handles? Those things all look alike. This is exactly why eyewitness testimony is unreliable. My own brain can’t agree with itself.
If she borrowed the camera, where did she take it? She mentioned visiting Mrs. Jenkins. Mrs. Jenkins loves old things. Vintage furniture. Vintage dishes. Vintage recipes. A vintage camera would probably make her day. Maybe Pandora wanted photography advice. That’s a perfectly sensible explanation… unless Mrs. Jenkins knows more about the camera than she’s letting on.
No. Stop. Be reasonable.
Then I remember John Mercer. A few weeks ago he asked whether I still used my old camera. At the time I thought it was just small talk, but now I’m wondering why he even asked. How did he know I still had it? Had Pandora mentioned it? Had Mrs. Jenkins? Or… no. Don’t do this. You’re doing the thing again.
I scratch Mr. Whiskers behind the ears, and he starts purring like a tiny lawn mower. See? Perfectly normal cat. Then he suddenly hops off my lap, walks straight to the hall closet, sits in front of the door, and stares directly at me.
Excuse me?
That’s… actually a little unsettling.
I open the closet. Still no camera. Mr. Whiskers quietly walks away without offering any explanation whatsoever. Classic cat.
At this point I’m suspicious of everyone. Pandora borrowed the camera. Mrs. Jenkins probably knows about it. John Mercer asked oddly specific questions. Mr. Whiskers is either an innocent bystander or enjoys psychological warfare. Somewhere in all this is my missing camera, and somehow I’m the only one who seems concerned about it.
Just then the front door opens.
Pandora walks in carrying my camera.
“Oh,” she says, smiling as though this is the most ordinary thing in the world. “I forgot to tell you. I borrowed it to scan our old hiking photos. The wallpaper came from one of the pictures I found on the memory card.”
She hands me the camera.
“Sorry.”
I stare at her for a long moment.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I slowly look over at Mr. Whiskers. He blinks exactly once before curling up in his favorite chair.
I swear that cat looked disappointed the conspiracy was over.
I’m still keeping an eye on John Mercer, though.
Just in case.