You check, and sure enough, you find incontrovertible evidence that someone had sneaked in. The manila folder you've stashed those notes in has been rifled through, and smudge marks can be seen all over the folder. The police answer your call. Fingerprints on the door and on the folder match those of the weird kid from across the street, the one with the binoculars, whom you'd caught peering through your daughter's bedroom window. But the kid did compliment you on your haircut the other day, so you think: "It couldn't have been him. It must have been someone else, maybe that Julian kid from down the street." And so, even though the police urge you to press charges, if only to protect yourself from the kid doing something dangerous, you say, "No, I like the kid, he said nice things about my beautiful pompadour."