Soup Shop Mystery

I glanced at my phone. The call log was there—the most recent call, and the one before it.

Hallucination? Impossible.

I cursed myself for not recording the call.

If I ruled out hallucination, then the person who had just spoken to the police might not have been Edmund at all.

If someone knew how to mimic voices, the distortion over a phone line would make it easy to fool the listener.

And if Edmund really was being held captive, there was only one suspect—Roger.

Edmund had said over the phone that someone was cutting pieces of his skin, and a piece of skin with his tattoo had turned up in Roger's organ soup.

On top of that, Roger had suddenly appeared at my door earlier, fishing for information.

Which meant he knew I was the one who had called the police—and now he might want to silence me.

I was in danger.

Better to risk being misunderstood by the police than to be murdered by Roger.

Knowing their response would likely be slow, I reported it anyway, then packed to hide out at a hotel outside the complex.

But the moment I stepped out my door, disaster struck.

The door opposite mine opened. Roger stepped out.

It was already past two in the morning. He wasn't asleep? Didn't he have a soup shop to run in the morning?

Why would he leave the house at this hour?

Most suspicious of all—why had he come out now, of all times, precisely when I opened my door to leave?

"You're going out so late," Roger asked casually. "Aren't you afraid it's dangerous?"

My heart pounded, but I forced myself to act calm. "What about you? What are you doing?"

"I… I'm going to the toilet. My bathroom's not ready yet."

"Fine. Go ahead then." I ducked back inside and pressed my eye to the peephole.

The sensor light in the corridor was still on. Roger stood frozen in place.

Liar. What bathroom needs to be ready? Even if it did, unless the water was cut off, a toilet would still work.

At least five seconds passed before he finally moved.

He walked down the hall. He had to keep up the act.

I locked the door tight, my suspicion solidifying into certainty. Something was very wrong with him.

I stayed pressed to the door, listening for every sound, watching through the peephole.

Before long, Roger returned. He lingered outside his door for a moment, then abruptly turned and walked toward mine.

He knocked.

My throat tightened. I gulped, frozen in place, trembling despite myself.

"You're in there, aren't you, miss?" Roger's voice was calm. "His name's Edmund, right? You two used to eat at my shop all the time."

I couldn't hold back. "So it was you! You killed him!"

Roger chuckled, the sound sending chills up my spine. "Ah, so you are inside. Young people… so impatient. Just a little bluff and you give yourself away."

"What do you want?" I demanded.

Going to the hotel was no longer an option. But the door was solid iron. For now, at least, I had some safety.

"What do I want?" His voice dipped low. "You already know. Why ask?"

Yes. I knew. He wanted to kill me.

Then Roger turned and walked back toward his apartment. For a moment, I thought maybe he was insane—frightening me for no reason, then crawled back into bed. He surely wouldn't be waiting for the police to come take him.

But the next second, he reappeared carrying a toolbox. He crouched low, out of sight from the peephole.

Then I heard the sound of him picking my lock.