Page 106 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“Can I help you?” a man’s voice says with a gravelly undertone. I turn and find the priest dabbing his weathered face with a napkin, giving me a once-over.

“I would like to pray for someone who just passed away,” I reply.

He nods and motions me over. He opens the Bible, and I follow him in prayer.

Looking up at the man himself nailed to the cross, I silently repent for the things I’ve done. I ask for forgiveness.

When I’m done, I silently pray for Dulce. For what she went through alone. I ask Him to give me life so I can make hers better.

I walk out sweating profusely, not feeling better, but like a sinner begging for forgiveness and not finding any.

I don’t think there is a God who would forgive me for what I plan to do. After leaving her in the hotel room, it all clicked into place. I knew who it was. I knew who did it. He may have fooled everyone else, but I saw it when I left his house that night. Not even the drugs could take what he had done to her from his eyes.

It was Chris.

I drive back to the bakery, hoping to catch Dulce. She hasn’t answered any of my calls, and I can’t say I blame her.

I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve my fame or fortune while hers was full of struggle, nightmares, and death.

I walk into the bakery, taking a deep breath at the familiar smell of her delicious cookies. I can smell the oatmeal and hint of cinnamon.

I catch Katie at the register. When she senses me standing at the counter, she looks up and rolls her eyes.

“Is she here?” I ask softly, sliding my hands inside the front pockets of my jeans.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” she says with an edge to her voice.

“Look, I’m not the bad guy. I know whatever it is she might have told you looks bad, but I’m not the bad guy.” I close my eyes briefly. I’m struggling to stay calm and not barge into the kitchen and frighten her. “I really need to speak to her.”

She swallows hard. “I need to tell you something.” She looks at the camera, at me, then pulls out her phone, and I watch her fingers fly across the keyboard.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I open the text and look at the picture.

It shows three dead rats in front of what I recognize as the bakery’s back door.

“WHICH RAT WILL WIN THE RACE?” is written in red on the white concrete before the step. It looks like blood.

“When was this?” I ask, anger surging like a tidal wave. I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack under my grip.

“Two days ago,” she replies.

“Has anything like this happened before?”

Her lips flatten as she shakes her head nervously. “No.”

I can tell she’s lying, and there’s more. She types on her phone and looks up.

A message goes through, and my nose flares in anger. My blood boils when I see a dead rat on the kitchen prep table with asinister message written in the same fashion. Her needing a new table starts to make sense.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “for lying.”

“I’m not mad at you, Katie. You didn’t do this to her. Just be there for her, alright?”

She nods. “I will.”

I pocket my phone. “Thank you for telling me. If you hear or see anything else, let me know. Day or night.”

I need Katie on my side, but Dulce needs a friend right now, and Katie isn’t a bad person. She just hangs around bad people.

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