Thanksgiving morning was supposed to be perfect. The house smelled of cinnamon and roasting vegetables, the table was half set, and my golden retriever Max was waiting eagerly for scraps. But when my husband, Kyle, came home with the turkey, something about the day shifted.
He was late — an hour late — and oddly flustered. His shirt was untucked, his smile too forced. “Crazy lines,” he said, dropping the turkey on the counter. Before I could ask more, he vanished again to “help his mom.”
That’s when Max started barking.
At first, I laughed. “You smell dinner early, huh?” But it wasn’t the excited kind of barking — it was low, growly, anxious. He circled the counter like a guard dog on duty, refusing to stop.
Finally, exasperated, I unwrapped the turkey just to prove nothing was wrong. Except there was something wrong. Deep inside the bird, under the folds of cold meat and butcher’s paper, I felt something hard and rectangular.
When I pulled it out, my breath caught. It was a vacuum-sealed bag — full of cash.
Stacks of crisp bills, wrapped tight.
Max stopped barking. I started shaking.
Within minutes, I had the phone in my hand, dialing 911. “Hi,” I stammered, “I think I just found a… lot of money… inside my Thanksgiving turkey.”
What I didn’t know then was that the police wouldn’t be the only surprise walking through my front door.