I never thought I’d be the kind of person who would say, “I just ran in for a coffee.”

It sounds so naïve in hindsight, like something people say in crime shows before

a detective shakes their head at them. But that morning, it really was supposed to be just ten minutes.

I was on my way to meet a friend—well, not a friend, more like a person from my past who’d

recently reappeared in my inbox with a vague message and a location. “We should talk,” it said.

No name, no details, just a pin dropped at a coffee shop I hadn’t been to in years.

And like an idiot—or maybe like someone who still had something to prove—I decided to go.

I parked my white Kia right in front, broad daylight, plenty of foot traffic.

It wasn’t a sketchy neighborhood, and I figured it was safe enough.

My laptop bag sat on the passenger seat, and yeah, I usually throw my coat over it,

just to be safe. But this time, I didn’t.

Ten minutes. In and out.

I walked into the café, scanned the room. No sign of the person who messaged me.

I ordered an iced coffee just to look casual, texted back “I’m here,” and waited. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Then I got the message: “Sorry. Something came up. Let’s reschedule.”

I muttered a curse, grabbed my drink, and walked out. That’s when I saw it.

The driver-side window of my car had been smashed to hell. Shards of glass glittered

in the afternoon sun, scattered like confetti across the seats, the floor, even inside the cup holders.

My stomach dropped. The laptop was gone.

I just stood there, holding my iced coffee like an idiot, unable to process it.

People walked past like nothing had happened. A few glanced at the wreckage, but no one stopped.

The anger hit first. I was shaking, swearing under my breath, already kicking myself. Then the real panic set in.

That laptop wasn’t just for work.