I never imagined I’d be the type to casually say, “I just ran in for a coffee.” It sounds like something out of a crime show, right before the detective shakes their head. But that morning, I thought it would be just a quick ten-minute stop.
I was meeting someone from my past—well, not exactly a friend—who had mysteriously messaged me with a vague invite and location: “We should talk.” I hadn’t been to that coffee shop in years, but something made me go.
I parked my car, a white Kia, right in front, feeling safe. I left my laptop bag on the seat, thinking it was a safe area. Ten minutes, in and out.
But as I walked into the café, no one showed. I texted, “I’m here,” and waited. Then came the message: “Sorry. Something came up. Let’s reschedule.”
Frustrated, I walked outside—only to find my car window shattered. The laptop was gone.
I was furious, but then panic set in. That laptop contained personal files I couldn’t afford to lose—court documents, divorce papers, and a sealed case I was never supposed to have.
A stranger approached, saying she saw the thief. And the story took a chilling turn when I found out who the thief was: Darren Varga. A name from my past I thought I’d buried.