Case File Entry #7: The Reveal
The café was too quiet. Steam hissed once from the wand, then cut off like someone had strangled it. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath. That’s when he walked in.
Velvet jacket, grin wide enough to split the night. Doug Judy. The Pumpkin Spice Bandit. He didn’t sneak, he strolled—like the case belonged to him, like autumn itself was on his payroll. The latte in his hand glowed faint amber, steam curling in shapes I didn’t trust.
He set the cup down slow. Foam spelled something on the counter. Maybe a word. Maybe a warning. I wasn’t superstitious, but I wasn’t ready to read it out loud either.
“You think this is about coffee?” His voice carried like a sermon, smooth as caramel, heavy as clove. “This is about control. They don’t even taste it anymore — they crave it. Cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin. The whole city’s on its knees, and all it took was a paper cup.”
He paused, grin sharper now, latte glowing like a lantern in the dark.
“I am autumn.”
Peralta slapped the counter, foam still on his lip. “I knew it!”
Nobody laughed. Jessica’s glare could’ve bent steel. The barista trembled behind the register, hands buried deep in her apron. Gibbs just stood there, jaw set, eyes like stone.
Judy leaned in, steam curling off his cup like a fuse about to burn out. “I don’t steal their wallets,” he said. “I steal their will.”
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The spell was thick enough to chew. My throat burned with words I didn’t want to say—cozy slogans, easy clichés. I swallowed them down with bitter black. It scorched all the way, but it kept me clean. For now.
That’s when Gibbs spoke. Low, steady, carved into the air like a rule you couldn’t break.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
I looked back at the counter, but Judy was gone. All that remained was the foam collapsing into nothing and a single cinnamon stick, smoldering like a fuse on the table.
The city smelled sweeter after that. Too sweet. And in this town, sweetness is just another kind of danger.
Case closed? Not a chance.
Post-Incident Addendum
Gibbs stared at the cup in his hand, foam still clinging to the rim.
“I don’t know what this is,” he muttered, “but it isn’t coffee.”
By Ivy Harrow