The stool was on the chair, both pushed close to the kitchen bench. There were footmarks on the counter, and a stack of thick recipe books. On the open cupboard door, handprints. And the Treats Box was not in its usual place.
In the culprit’s absence, we grinned conspiratorially. I mimed camera, and he nodded, and went in search (the linen closet was a good guess, or under her bed). We rendezvoused on the stairs, and crept up them silently.
Seventeen years later, at her 21st birthday party, those photos of her guilty, chocolatey face were more than adequate return.