Soup Shop Mystery

It was Roger! What was he doing here? My nerves tightened like a coil.

"What is it?" I forced my voice steady.

"You were the one who called the police today, weren't you?" he asked.

My heart lurched into my throat. How did he know?

"It wasn't me!" I blurted out, panicked.

The thought of his retaliation chilled me to the bone. If he really had killed my boyfriend and used the body for soup, then learning I had reported him might very well drive him to kill me too. Even if I was wrong and this was all some dreadful misunderstanding, my call had still damaged his business. His wife was notoriously aggressive—wouldn't she take revenge?

From the other side of the door, Roger went quiet for about five seconds. Then he gave a low chuckle. "Of course it was you. I saw the footage. You took one bite, covered your mouth, and bolted outside. You looked like you were going to vomit."

His tone was flat and emotionless.

"I… that was morning sickness. I'm pregnant!" I stammered, the first excuse that came to mind. It was the only thing that sounded remotely plausible.

But even as I spoke, a terrifying thought struck me.Since he asked the question, didn't it mean he was admitting—at least to himself—that human flesh really had been in that soup?

My pulse hammered. I edged toward the window, ready to leap if he forced his way inside. It was only the third floor. If I jumped, I'd likely survive.

But then, his tone shifted into concern. "Pregnant, are you? Then you'd better take care of yourself. Best to cook at home. Most of the food outside relied heavily on food additives and chemically-engineered ingredients."

"Uh… right. Thank you," I said, faltering.

"And your husband?" he asked suddenly. "Shouldn't he be looking after you if you're pregnant?"

I almost lied, almost said he was busy with work, but a sharp instinct stopped me. Roger wasn't making small talk. He was probing, trying to confirm if I lived alone.

"My husband's working late," I replied quickly. "He's a fitness coach, probably has extra clients tonight. During the day, my brother looks after me. He's a nightclub bouncer—big, strong guy. He stays here in the daytime before heading out to work at night."

"Ah, I see," Roger said lightly. "Well, if you ever need help, just knock on my door. I live right across from you."

I froze. "What? You live opposite me?"

"Yeah. Just moved in today. The last place I rented was too far from the shop."

"Got it," I murmured.

Then silence.

I waited, barely breathing, for what felt like five full minutes before daring to creep toward the door. Pressing my eye to the peephole, I prayed he was gone.

But he was still there.

His face, distorted by the fisheye lens, looked grotesque and menacing, his eyes cold and unblinking.

A scream tore from my throat. I knew I shouldn't have made a sound, but fear overpowered me.

"You're lying," he said at once. "It was you who called the police. Your husband is a fitness coach? Your brother is a bouncer? That's ridiculous."

"What do you want?" I snapped, my voice trembling. "Leave right now, or I'll call the police again—"

"No, no! You misunderstand me!" His tone cracked with panic.

The raw edge of fear in his voice eased my terror just a little. He wasn't unhinged enough to defy the police outright—not yet.

"A misunderstanding? You've been standing outside my door all this time, and you call it a misunderstanding?"

"No, I—I… I just—ah… you—" His words tangled into a stutter. He always tripped over himself when nervous, I remembered.

I risked another glance through the peephole.

His face was flushed red, and his body fidgeted with restless anxiety. He spun in place like a trapped animal—hardly the image of a cold-blooded murderer.