Doomed

The events described here are based on a true story.  The names have not been changed because I didn't really ask them if they wanted them to be changed and you already know me.  The length has been compressed for time and the facts have been adjusted to make it interesting.  No motorcycles were harmed in the making of this story until we tried to lift it onto the bench, but it's probably fine.
 
     I was in the garage one cold night not too long ago.  I was taking parts off the Nighthawk so I could lift the hefty motorcycle frame onto my workbench when from outside, there rang the car alarm from the 4Runner that Mike owned.  He was at work and I had the code to unlock the garage door so I could work on the bikes a couple days a week even if he wasn't around.  I was about to go investigate when the alarm chirped off.  Odd.
     This location was ground zero for a theft that occurred a few months back.  A low-life coward stole our air compressor and one of our jackets one night.  With this incident influencing me, I was prepared to stop any further thievery and exact my revenge, whether this was the same culprit or not.  I thought that Nichelle might be home so I sent her a text to ask about the alarm, which had gone off a second time.

"Is that you out there?"
Nothing. The alarm went off again. Another text.
"Hey, knock it off!"
Again, the alarm rang and then chirped off. I started to get a little worried.
"Haha, no! Is it you?"
Surely she was messing with me but then she continued.
"I really don't know what's going on out there."
"Then I'm going to grab a hammer and beat on the next thing that comes near me."

     I went to the door and turned the outside lights on.  I walked outside into a light misty rain that is characteristically Seattle. I looked around the other side of the truck, my car, back to the truck.
Nothing. Silent.
     I then turned to the garage with a painful realization: I had left the door open.  Surely the murderer had lured me outside and was hiding in a dark corner, waiting for me to come back in and lock the door behind me.

The pretty ones always die first.