Page 9 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

I roll dough into angry little spheres of sexual confusion and try not to picture his hands. Big. Gentle. Capable of both postmortem reconstruction and perfect condiment distribution. That’s range. That’s… hot? My brain’s stuck back at his voice saying things like “Do you have a fruit preserve preference?” and now I’m wondering if that’s code for something filthy or if I’ve just been dating absolute trash for too long.

Goddamnit.

It wasn’t premeditated. There’s no such thing as spontaneous dating, is there?

If I ask him on a date, does that make it public service? Like jury duty, but with sandwiches and long stares that make my ovaries whisper things? It’d be a civic duty. Someone’s got to test him for hidden toxicity before he ends up dating some nice girl who doesn’t know the warning signs. I know the signs. I have spreadsheets. Color-coded ones.

He works with corpses. That’s a red flag, right? Somewhere, buried deep in a graveyard, there’s probably a headstone that reads:

Here Lies One of Edgar’s Red Flags

Beloved by no one.

Died of mysterious silence and too much cologne.

I shove the tray into the oven, and slam the door shut.

The oven ticks. The cookies start to rise. And I just stand there, arms crossed like a woman trying to ward off emotional intimacy with butter and heat.

“I’m fucked,” I whisper to the silence.

Because I might actually like him and I haven’t emotionally imprinted on a man since 2017, and that ended with a Google search for “can you get ghosted by a therapist.”

I’m just placing the last cookie on the cooling rack when the doorbell rings.

I carry the spatula with me. It’s one of the good ones, solid stainless steel with a sharp edge that could double as a defensive weapon if the situation called for it. I’m not expecting a package. No one texted or called. Which usually means one of two things: a doomsday cult armed with pamphlets, or a guy trying to sell me solar panels while lying about his name being Brad.

I peer through the peephole.

It’s worse. A cop.

And not just any cop. One of those cops. Tall. Broody. Built like a department-issued wet dream.

He’s standing carved from caution tape and caffeine like he owns the whole damn porch, feet planted, expression unreadable beneath a very official-looking brim. His uniform’s crisp enough to make a nun blush, badge polished to an existential shine, and when he shifts his weight, his eyes flick toward the door like he knows I’m doing illegal levels of gawking. Or like he’s waiting for me to confess something just by proximity.

Great. Now I’m being investigated and psychically surveilled.

I open the door a cautious few inches and give him my most neighborly smile, the kind that says I bake cookies, compost responsibly, and definitely didn’t bury anyone this week.

“Good evening, Officer,” I say lightly. “Are you collecting for some kind of fund? I’d offer cash, but all I’ve got is cookie dough and emotional damage.”

His brow lifts, but his face doesn’t soften. “Not exactly. I was hoping to ask a few questions. It’s about a missing person.”

Of course it is.

I glance down at the spatula in my hand and then back up at his face. He’s got a deep, unhurried voice. The kind that suggests he’s used to being listened to. His eyes are dark, serious, not leering, but intense in a way that sends a buzz of heat through my spine. Not ideal.

“Would you like to come in?” I ask, because not inviting him in feels more suspicious, and because I’ve been raised with manners, even if I sometimes kill men. “I just pulled cookies from the oven, and I have fresh milk. Or coffee, if you’re the type who prefers caffeine with your questioning.”

His gaze flicks to the spatula.

“This is just a cookie spatula,” I say, waving it slowly like I’m trying to hypnotize a bear. “Not for stabbing. Unless you’re part of a secret cult or selling NFTs, in which case I’d be reconsidering.”

Something shifts in his face. Not a smile, exactly, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he has one, somewhere under all that brooding authority.

“I’ll take coffee, if it’s not too much trouble,” he says. “Officer Carson. And thank you, Miss Lane.”

“Jennifer,” I say, stepping back so he can enter. “But feel free to log me as the suspicious neighborhood cookie witch with a history of poor romantic judgment and excellent snacks.”

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