Case File Entry #1: The Tip Off

The café smelled like cinnamon and impending doom. Nutmeg on the surface, something darker underneath—the kind of smell that clings to a trench coat long after the rain’s stopped. I ducked in for a bitter black, just trying to dry out, but the air told me different. Too sweet. Too eager.

The barista’s hands shook on the pump, like the syrup might bite her. She leaned close, voice thin as steam. “He slipped it in this morning. A packet. Not sugar, not spice. It… hummed.”

I’d seen jittery baristas before. Burnt beans, late shifts. But this wasn’t caffeine. She swore she’d watched a man in a trench coat slide that packet under the counter like evidence. And she was right about one thing: the lattes were different. Every cup seemed to vibrate faintly, as if the milk itself carried a secret.

I don’t usually take seasonal cases. Too sticky. Too much foam. But pumpkin spice? That’s a mean enchantment. Gets into people’s heads. Makes ’em line up, wallets out, eyes glazed. They don’t taste the coffee—they taste the spell. And tonight, that spell was sitting in my lap, still warm.

By Ivy Harrow