Theft

Was that down before? I stare at the blind through the closed window. It wasn't yesterday. Does that mean that Kim is back?
I open the electric gate that borders our house and hers and step through to find her side gate wide open. Something isn't right.
"Grant," I shout, running back into my own house. "Can you come with me?"
"To feed the cat? You can't do it yourself?"
"The gate is open."
It doesn't take much more convincing than that. Grant gets up from his seat, his father following, and together we go next door. Once we are through the side gate, our worst fears are confirmed. With the car not in the driveway, there's no way that Kim has come back from her holiday early. More open gates greet us, all with their locks missing, and splinters are scattered on the floor around the front door. We open it carefully, not knowing what we will find inside - they could still be there for all we know. But, as we step into the house, it's obvious that it has been abandoned - clothes litter what was once a neat lounge; cupboard doors are flung open, the cupboards themselves empty; the couches, empty of cushions, are covered in bits and pieces that have been scavenged from the house: empty cellphone boxes, more clothes, a small TV and a candelabra are scattered between numerous other items.
"Crap," I whispered as we glanced at a life of belongings strewn across the house without a thought for their owner. A doll torn apart upstairs, closets stripped bare, a fridge emptied and left wide open. This isn't what I would want to come home to.
"What do we do?" I am frozen, not wanting to move, not wanting to touch anything in case I destroy evidence, smudge fingerprints. I take out my cellphone, but realise that I don't even have Kim's number.
"Should we phone the police," Grant asks, turning to his dad - the two of them keeping their heads far better than I can.
Moments later, the cops arrive and start asking questions.
"Who are you?"
"Why are you here?"
"Where is the owner?"
"When did you arrive?"
I answer them one by one, trying to explain as much as I can, but there are questions that I can't answer. I cannot tell them what is missing, I cannot tell them whether the alarm works and I cannot tell them exactly what is out of place. Some things are obvious - the burgular bars hanging off the windows don't exactly scream safety - and other things are highly suspicious - the pitchfork with its bent prongs lying in the grass beside the window seems to scream "look at me!"
After my interrogation is over, once the fingerprinters have been and gone, once the landlady has been dealt with, the alarm has been set and the house has been locked up as well as we can manage, we head back to our side of the house, separated only by a garage door and a wall, and return to normalcy. I can't explain why, but our side of the wall just seems safer, as though nothing can touch us. And yet, as I drift off to sleep, my dreams are permeated with images of robbers and thieves, taking my stuff and destroying my piece of mind.