I counted it. I definitely counted it.
Three Reese’s. Four Kit Kats. One full-size Snickers that I got from the dentist’s house (ironic).
A mountain of Smarties. A suspicious number of Tootsie Rolls.
And the crown jewel: one blue raspberry Airhead, folded like treasure.

I put it in the pumpkin bag. I put the bag in my closet. I put a sweatshirt over it.
I even told James, “Don’t touch my candy.”
He said, “I won’t.”
He said it like someone who definitely will.

But now… it’s smaller.
Not dramatically smaller. Not like “someone dumped it.”
Just… suspiciously smaller.
Like the pile is shrinking in slow motion.

I asked Mom.
She said, “I haven’t touched it.”
But she said it while chewing something.
I asked Dad.
He said, “I wouldn’t steal your candy, buddy.”
But he winked.
Winked.

I launched a full investigation.
I made a chart. I drew the candy pile yesterday and today.
I circled the missing pieces.
I made a suspect list:

• James (obvious)
• Mom (chews mysteriously)
• Dad (winks too much)
• Pookie Cat (unlikely, but sneaky)

I set a trap. I put a mini Twix on top of the pile and took a picture.
Then I waited.
The next morning, it was gone.
No wrapper. No crumbs. Just gone.

I called a family meeting.
I said, “Someone is stealing my Halloween candy.”
Mom said, “Maybe you ate it and forgot.”
Dad said, “Maybe it’s candy gremlins.”
James said, “I didn’t do it.”
Pookie Cat licked her paw and walked away like a criminal mastermind.

The mystery remains.
The pile keeps shrinking.
I’ve started sleeping with the bucket next to my bed.
I’ve started counting the Smarties every night.
I’ve started whispering, “I’m watching you,” to the air.

Because when you’re seven, and your loot is disappearing, and the grown-ups are acting suspiciously normal—

You don’t need candy.
You need justice.