Valentine’s Day. My boss forced me to work late, so I bought a whole rotisserie chicken to make up for it. The shop owner, Pete, heard I was spending the holiday alone. He kindly threw in a few smoked "specialty riblets." He made sure to emphasize they were made with his secret dry rub—smoky, savory, and incredibly flavorful. I got home, settled in, put on Netflix, and started gnawing on a riblet. But the more I ate, the weirder it felt. The meat had a strange, gamey texture. The taste had an unmentionable metallic tang underneath the spice. I figured it was just an old batch that hadn't sold, and he was clearing inventory on me. I didn't think too much of it. Until I finished the third piece. I spit out the bone and compared it to my own index finger. They were the same length. Same structure. I crawled to the toilet, puking until I was dry-heaving bile. Then, with trembling fingers, I dialed 911. Chapter 1 My parents passed away years ago. Since graduating college, I’ve lived completely alone. My boss knew my situation. That afternoon, she dropped a stack of files on my desk. "Don't leave until these are done," she said, without making eye contact. By the time I closed my laptop, the city lights below were already blazing. My body felt heavy with exhaustion. Considering it was a holiday, I didn't have the energy to cook. So, I went to my usual spot, Pete's Smokehouse, to buy a rotisserie chicken. "Hey Pete, I’ll take a whole chicken. Shredded, please." Twenty-five dollars. Usually, I’d never be so extravagant on a random Friday. Pete saw me ordering so late and started making small talk. "Working late, kid? On Valentine’s Day?" I forced a tight smile. "Yeah. Got student loans and rent to pay, you know?" "You never stop working yourself, do you, Pete?" His hands never stopped moving. "Nah. I sent the wife back to her family in Idaho for the long weekend. Figured I’d keep the stand open a bit longer." "Look at you, working so hard. Tell you what, take these smoked riblets. I won't sell 'em tonight anyway." "I’m telling you, these are made with my secret dry rub. The flavor is out of this world." He tossed several pieces into a brown paper bag, acting like it was no big deal. I felt a little guilty taking them, thinking I should do something in return. I saw a black industrial trash bag sitting by the counter. Assuming it was trash needing to be thrown out, I stepped forward quickly. "Pete, let me take that trash out for you." But before my hand could touch the bag, he grabbed my wrist tight. "Don’t you worry about that," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You kids are too busy these days. Go home, eat, relax. Take care of yourself." He handed me the shredded chicken. "Alright, get going. Happy Valentine’s." His sudden concern made my eyes sting. I blinked back tears, thanked him repeatedly, and headed home. The moment I unlocked my apartment door, I collapsed onto the couch. My miserable boss, Olivia, making me work late with no overtime pay. Squeezing me dry. I turned on the TV, half-watching a drama, half-sending Olivia work updates via email. This had been my life for years. But survival required a paycheck, so I couldn't just quit. I grabbed a beer, cracked it open, and took a long swig. I reached into the bag for a riblet and started eating. I have to admit, Pete's dry rub was incredible. Smoky, spicy, totally addictive. Under the warm living room light, the spiced meat looked enticing. I didn't know where he sourced his meat, but these riblets seemed bigger than usual. I couldn't tell if they were overcooked or just old, but the texture felt... off when I chewed. But hey, they were free. I didn't analyze it. Until I got to the third piece, and my teeth hit something hard. I spit it out. The bone was unusually long. "What kind of riblet bone is this big?" I muttered to myself, holding it up to the light. Something felt terribly wrong. Drawn by some morbid instinct, I placed my own hand next to the bone. The length... was identical. I froze, paralyzed. Slowly, I looked down at the remaining pieces in the bag. They were all roughly the same size. I picked one up and flipped it over. On the end of the fourth piece, where the joint should be, there was a clean, brutal chop mark through what looked like a palm. This was… "URP…" I bolted for the bathroom and began to vomit violently. My stomach flipped inside out, retching until I was convinced I was puking bile. Once my stomach was completely empty, I crawled back to the living room, grabbed my phone, and ran into the bedroom, locking the door behind me. My hands shook so badly I could barely unlock the phone. I called 911. I didn't really process anything until the doorbell rang repeatedly. Even then, knowing the bones were still in the living room, I was too terrified to go out. Until the police called my cell. "Is this Sarah Jenkins? This is the police. We are outside your door. Please let us in." Shaking uncontrollably, I gripped my phone and crept along the wall to the front door. I unlocked it, and two men in police uniforms appeared. One old, one young—looked like a training scenario. Miller, the veteran, and Davis, the rookie. "You called in saying you found human fingers in your takeout? Where?" I hid behind them, pointing to the pile of bones on the coffee table. I have a bad habit: when I eat snaking food, I pile the trash on the table and clean it up all at once at the end. So that pile of bones looked exceptionally prominent. "You ate them?!" Davis looked at me, horrified. When I called 911, I only said I found fingers in my food. I didn't say I had spit them out of my mouth. The question made my stomach roll again, and I gagged. Officer Miller cut his partner off. "Stupid question, Davis. Who buys smoked ribs just to look at them?" He turned to comfort me. "Don't be scared, ma’am. Maybe it really is just a chicken paw or something weird. Animals mutate, they get big. It might be nothing." But when he put on gloves and picked up a finger bone to examine it closely, his reassuring words died in his throat. He instructed Davis: "Call dispatch. Get forensics down here, and Dr. Evans, the medical examiner. I suspect dismemberment." Davis did as he was told immediately, then shot me a look of pure pity. Spending Valentine’s Day eating… that. He probably figured I’d be scarred for life. While waiting for the ME, Officer Miller questioned me for background. Location and time of purchase, Pete's appearance, any other details. When he heard Pete gave me the riblets for free, Miller's expression shifted to suspicion. "As far as I know, Pete's Smokehouse usually sells out of those 'riblets' by 8 PM." "They are expensive. Why would he just give them to you for nothing?" I flinched at his sharp, accusatory tone. My lips trembled, and it took a few seconds before I could speak. "Pete told me it was late, and he wouldn't be able to sell them anyway." "And I’m a regular customer. He sometimes gives me extras, like chicken wings or ends that didn't sell." My heart hammered in my chest as I waited for his response. Officer Miller just stared at me, his eyes deep and unreadable. He didn't say another word. I felt worse and worse, my anxiety skyrocketing. A moment later, Miller's phone buzzed. He walked into the corner to answer it. I faintly heard him mutter phrases like "Surveillance and logs show..." and "They didn't find anyone." He hung up, and when he turned back to me, his gaze was full of scrutiny. "Sarah Jenkins, are you positive you bought this food at Pete's Smokehouse?" "Is it possible you were exhausted from working late and hallucinated it? That you bought it somewhere else and got confused?" I was stunned. I shook my head instinctively. "No way. I only go to that one smokehouse." "My own boss recommended it to me, so I go there every time." Officer Miller took a deep breath, looking at the bones, the shredded rotisserie chicken, and finally back at me. "But we just got the report. Pete’s Smokehouse hasn’t been open in three days." The world seemed to explode around me. I literally jumped off the couch. "Impossible! My boss just went there yesterday to buy pulled pork!" "I ate some of it!" Because Olivia recommended it, it was right near the office, so I went there constantly after work. She had even told me she wouldn’t be home for Valentine’s Day, so I could just relax and go there after I finished working. Officer Davis was completely lost, listening to me. He couldn't help but blurts out: "What the hell is going on here?" The three of us stood in an awkward stalemate. Finally, Miller broke the silence. "You said Pete told you he sent his wife back to her family for the holiday, and he was keeping the stand open." "But according to our immediate background check, Pete Peterson and his wife, Brenda, are legally separated." "She’s been living in Idaho since last year because of 'marital strife' and they are in the middle of a messy divorce. It’s been dragging on." Miller pulled up a video feed on his tablet. A woman I didn't recognize was speaking. She was in a rural-looking kitchen. "Pete and I haven't seen each other in eight months," the woman in the video said. "I don't know what’s going on at the Smokehouse. Pete handles all that. Is he in trouble? We aren't legally divorced yet." I stood frozen, my heart skipping a beat. They had been separated for months. So why did he always mention his wife to me? And why did he specifically say he sent her home early because he loved her? Officer Miller saw my confusion and asked another question: "Have you ever seen his wife?" I froze. I realized… I had never seen his wife. The shock was too much, and I stumbled, almost collapsing. Davis caught me just in time. "Sarah Jenkins, we haven't found anything concrete yet. But I’m going to need you to come down to the station with us to make a formal statement." "Okay… Okay." I gripped my phone tightly, not even remembering to grab my coat. Davis saw the biting cold outside the window and grabbed it for me before we left. I shot him a grateful look and followed close behind. At the police station, Miller poured me a cup of hot water, opened his laptop, and began the interrogation. "Sarah, you say you frequently go to Pete's Smokehouse. But I’m looking at the map. You live on the other side of downtown. It’s not on your way home at all." "There are dozens of other restaurants, including other BBQ places, much closer to you. Why do you specifically drive all the way there?" I held the warm paper cup tight, as if that warmth were the only thing keeping me sane. "Because that shop… is owned by a relative of my boss, Olivia Smith. It’s right next to our office." "Olivia makes all of us support his business. Almost everyone in our office eats his BBQ." "My company is Apex Solutions. My boss is Olivia Smith. You can check." Officer Miller clicked around on his laptop, confirming the information. Then he asked: "Are you positive the man who sold you that food? Was it Pete Peterson himself?" I was stunned by the question again. "Of course it was him. I go there constantly. How could I get the person wrong?" "Besides, his Smokehouse is the only restaurant on that entire block. I couldn't have gone to the wrong place." Officer Miller checked his phone again, remaining silent. After a long while, his fingers lightly tapped the desk, his eyes sharply focused on me. "Sarah, the patrol unit just interviewed the owners of all the other shops on that street. They all said the same thing." "Pete’s Smokehouse was sold to a corporate chain a week ago." "So, Sarah, where exactly did you buy those riblets?" Miller’s words were like a hammer blow to my head. What do you mean it was sold a week ago? Then where did my smoked riblets come from? Did I buy food from a ghost? Officer Miller didn't speak, just sat in silence, staring at me with pure disbelief. "I don't know if anything you just told me is true." "But I’m going to tell you something. It was raining all day. It only stopped right before dusk. The ground is wet." "Raindrops hit water, or feet step in puddles, and they kick up small points of mud." "The lock on the security pull-down gate of Pete's Smokehouse had absolutely no signs of mud points being wiped away. And the ceramic tiles next to the door frame had no footprints." "If you wanted to open the lock on that security gate, you’d have to step on those tiles." He handed me the tablet with photos, watching my reaction. I stared at the photos, zooming in, desperately looking for any shred of evidence. But the night was too dark, the visibility was too low. From the angle of the photos, the security gate truly looked like it hadn't been opened in ages. I shook my head, trying to force myself to remember. It had just rained, it was cold, and because it was a holiday, his shop was the only one open on the whole street. The street was dark, and after I bought the food, I left immediately. "Aren’t you supposed to check the surveillance cameras? Technology is advanced." I muttered a rebuttal. Officer Miller sighed, looking a little helpless. "That’s an old street. There are a few cameras, but most of them have been vandalized or are broken." "Only one at the street corner still works." I lifted my head in panic. He shot me a look of pity. "Even without cameras, the filth on that security gate doesn't lie." "You can't seriously be trying to tell me that the owner specifically waited for you to finish working just to give you free riblets." "That before closing, he took a mud bottle and evenly sprayed mud points on the security gate, then specifically wiped the floor next to it clean, just so anyone investigating would see nothing." "That would be far too clever." He was right. It made no sense. Was I truly so exhausted from working late that I hallucinated the whole thing? I grabbed my hair hard, trying to stay calm. Suddenly, I had a flash of inspiration and slammed my hand on the desk. "I posted a photo on Instagram!" I quickly pulled out my phone and started scrolling through my feed. I rarely treat myself to rotisserie chicken, so I took a photo to share. By now, many colleagues had commented.
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