Chapter 9: The concern
Detective Mark Harris wasn't a subtle man. He dealt in traffic violations, bar fights, and the occasional domestic dispute. Lately, however, his town had started to feel like the set of a bad music video—one populated by an increasing number of dazed, giggling women with frosting in their hair and a disturbing, synchronized glow in their eyes. The station had gotten three missing persons reports in as many weeks, all for women last seen heading toward the strip mall. Their husbands or roommates all used the same phrase: “She just wanted a cupcake.”
Then there were the calls. The woman found wandering the highway in a lace negligee, murmuring about “the pink sugar.” The group of four who’d tried to break into the closed bakery at 3 AM, hissing when officers tried to pull them away. It all led back to that goddamn pink eyesore across from the antique shop.
He’d ignored Holloway’s calls. The lesbian antique dealer with the paranoid theories about “sugar cults” wasn’t a credible source. But now, with a file of incident reports thickening on his desk, he decided to go straight to the source. A little intimidation usually worked on small business owners.
The bell on the door of Sweet Peppers jingled with obscene cheerfulness. The air was a solid wall of scent—vanilla, burnt sugar, and that faint, acrid tang that made his fillings hurt. Every table was full. Women, mostly, sipping frothy drinks and nibbling on pastries that seemed to gleam under the track lighting. The conversation was a constant, low hum of giggles and sighs. Nobody looked at him. They were all too absorbed in their treats, their fingers sticky, their lips glossy.
“Well, hello officer!”
Pepper emerged from behind a mountain of rainbow macarons. She was taller than he’d expected, looming over him even in his boots. Her smile was a wide, stretched thing. Her eyes were like chips of blue ice.
“I need to have a word,” Harris said, his voice gruff. He thumbed his badge. “In private.”
“Oh, my! Is everything alright?” she sang, not moving an inch. Her voice was like syrup poured over broken glass. “Would you like a sampler platter? Our buttercream is to die for.”
“Cut the crap.” He kept his voice low, but it carried in the quiet, giggle-filled room. A few heads slowly turned. “I’m here about a public health issue. Several, in fact. I’ve got reports of customers experiencing… adverse reactions. Psychotic episodes. Missing persons.”
Pepper’s smile didn’t flicker. “My sweeties sometimes get a little over-enthusiastic! Sugar rush, you know how it is.”
“I know you’re pumping something into this garbage that’s making people sick,” Harris said, stepping closer. He tapped a display case with his knuckles. The glass vibrated. “I’m shutting you down. Today. Health inspector will be here in an hour. You can cooperate, or I can have you in cuffs for obstructing an investigation.”
The giggling in the bakery had stopped. Complete silence. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the room pressing on him. The women had all turned in their seats. Their expressions were blank, but their attention was absolute. Frosting smeared on cheeks. Vacant, hungry eyes.
Pepper looked past him, addressing the room. Her tone was one of mock-sadness, a kindergarten teacher sharing bad news. “Oh, dear. Do you hear that, my darlings? The nice policeman says… no more treats.”
A soft, collective inhale.
“He says our happiness is a public health issue.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. A woman in a floral dress stood up. Then another. Chairs scraped softly on the tile.
Harris felt the first prickle of real alarm. “Alright, that’s enough. Everyone stay seated.”
“He wants to take your Pepper away,” she whispered, a cruel lilt in her voice. “He wants to lock the doors and take all the sweet, sweet love away forever.”
The woman in the floral dress was the first to move. She didn’t run. She walked, a slow, dreamy stroll, her fingers trailing along the tabletops. Others followed, rising and converging in a slow, unhurried flow. Their smiles were back, wider than ever, but their eyes were utterly dark.
“Back up!” Harris barked, his hand going to his holster. He didn’t draw. They were unarmed civilians. He couldn’t draw.
A hand, sticky with something that glistened, closed around his wrist. It was shockingly strong. He yanked back, but another hand grasped his other arm. They crowded in, a press of soft, perfumed bodies and that overwhelming sugary smell. They were humming now, a tuneless, happy sound.
“Get off me!” he shouted, panic rising. He tried to shove a woman back, but she just swayed and pressed closer, her head tilting as she giggled directly into his face. Hands were everywhere, patting, grabbing, pinching. They pulled his pen from his pocket. A woman in a sweat suit snatched his hat and placed it on her own head, giggling.
“Good girls,” Pepper crooned from behind the counter, watching, her hands folded neatly. “Such good, helpful girls. Show the officer how much we love our home.”
The press became a tide. Harris lost his footing. He went down hard, his elbow cracking against the tile. The humming grew louder, enveloping him. They piled on, not with fists, but with a terrifying, gentle insistence. He felt his duty belt unbuckle. His radio was plucked away. Sticky fingers clawed at his shirt buttons.
He saw a flash of a smile, a strand of blonde hair matted with pink icing. Heard the soft rip of fabric. A wet, warm tongue licked a stripe up his neck.
“Stop! God, stop!” He thrashed, but the weight was immense, a smothering blanket of flesh and pastel cloth.
Pepper’s voice cut through the hum, sweet and clear. “Keep going, my lovelies. He needs to learn. He needs to be thankful.”
A woman sat on his chest, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh. She began to rhythmically bounce, her giggling syncopated with his choked gasps. Another cradled his head in her lap, stroking his hair as someone else methodically pulled his shoes and socks off. He felt a sharp, burning pain as his pinky finger was bent sharply back. A pop. He screamed.
The sound was swallowed by their giggles and hums.
HE’S BRUTALIZED.