Page 10 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

He steps inside without comment, and I close the door behind him, aware that my kitchen smells like butter and sugar and poor judgement. There’s a fresh plate of cookies on the counter, and I have a feeling I’m about to spend the nextten minutes pretending I’m a functioning adult while Officer Broodcore sips coffee and profiles me for murder or worse, heartbreak.

And I can’t tell if the universe is trying to warn me… or set me up.

The coffee’s brewing. My hands are shaking just a little. Not because I’m guilty. Because he has that bow in his upper lip and the voice of a man who says “ma’am” like a threat and I haven’t been emotionally stable since 2016.

I slide the cookie plate toward him, offering a truce, a bribe, and my phone number all in one sugar-dusted gesture. “Snickerdoodle? They’re still warm. So am I. From baking.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

Officer Carson wraps his hands around the coffee mug like it might protect him from a cookie related incident and takes a sip without looking away from me. His lips wrap around the mug like he’s making love to the ceramic. I immediately imagine what he could do to a clit. Mine, specifically. My uterus throws confetti. My dignity throws herself out a window.

He doesn’t touch a cookie. Power move. This is no longer a questioning, it’s foreplay with a steno pad.

He sets the mug down too gently. Like it’s not a mug, but a trap that just snapped shut. “What can you tell me about a man named Gregory Tramble?”

Of course this is about Greg Tramble. That man who leaves Yelp reviews for strip clubs and calls every server “sugar.”

My smile tightens. “Gregory Tramble,” I repeat, rolling it around like gum I forgot was expired. Bitter. Flecked with the taste of regret and mediocre fingering. “God. That’s generous. I usually just called him Greg the Grope. Or Greg the Gaslighter, depending on the day.”

I lean back in my chair and nibble on the edge of a cookie like I’m the picture of innocence and not sitting three feet froma man with a badge and a very intimidating jawline. “We went on four dates. Which, honestly, was excessive. But I believe in second chances. And sometimes third ones. Fourth was a pity date. I’m a philanthropist like that.”

Carson nods like he’s heard this kind of insanity before. Probably from criminals who didn’t also offer cookies with it. “So you knew him.”

“I knew of him,” I say, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “Briefly. Regretfully.” I offer the cookie plate again. “Seriously, you’re going to want one of these. They’re to die for. Not that Greg died for them. That would be weird. Anyway, what’s going on? Is he the missing person? Because that would explain why he ghosted me before I could ghost him.”

Carson’s jaw tics. “So you haven’t seen him recently?”

“You’re not a cookie man?” I ask. “That explains the intensity. No serotonin in the bloodstream.”

“I prefer savory,” he says.

Jesus. He says it like he means me.

I bite the cookie in half, chew thoughtfully, and swallow. “Define recently.”

He arches a brow. “The past few weeks?”

“Nope.” I pop the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “Not unless you count the bits of him my rose bush is still feasting on.”

He doesn’t laugh.

Right. Cops don’t like murder jokes during active investigations. That feels like profiling.

I clear my throat. “That was a joke. Obviously. Gardening humor. Very niche.”

Carson flips a page on his little notebook. His fingers are long. Ink-stained justice weapons. I bet he peels oranges in one unbroken spiral. I bet he could make a woman confess everything with two fingers and a softly murmured “I’mlistening.” His pen hovers. “Did Mr. Tramble mention anything that might’ve suggested he planned to leave town?”

“Oh, sure. He said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna disappear like your self-esteem after thirty.’” I sip my coffee. “Charming, right?”

“That’s an… unusual thing to say.”

“Greg was an unusual guy,” I say, voice dry. “He wore socks with flames on them and called himself an alpha. He had a tattoo of a wolf howling at the moon on his thigh. If that man left town, I can assure you it wasn’t to find inner peace. Probably got eaten by a bear. Or catfished by a hotter alpha and dumped in the woods. Either way, nature’s problem now.”

Carson’s mouth twitches again. His eyes scan my face. “Did he ever mention anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?”

“Besides everyone who ever met him?” I laugh. “I’m guessing your suspect list is… long.”

He ignores that. “Where were you the night of May 8th?”

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