Soup Shop Mystery

There's a little shop downstairs that sells organ soup. It's always packed with customers. People line up as if bewitched, eager for a bowl.

I've often wondered what secret ingredient made their soup so irresistible.

This afternoon, I finally found my answer. Floating in my bowl was a piece of human skin—inked with a tattoo I knew all too well.

It was the one etched on my boyfriend's arm.

My boyfriend, who had gone missing for a month, appeared in my soup.

The shop was crowded, yet I didn't dare raise my voice. Swallowing down the bile in my throat, I staggered outside, found a secluded corner, and retched until my stomach burned.

When I was done, I ran upstairs, locked myself inside, and dialed the police.

An hour later, they called back.

"We've checked," the officer said. "Their ingredients are all sheep offal. As for the tattooed skin you mentioned, we believe it was a standard meat inspection stamp. No missing-person reports have been filed in the city for over six months."

"No!" I protested. "That mark wasn't a stamp. It was a tattoo!"

The officer sighed, his patience thinning. "Miss, you're overthinking this. We thoroughly inspected their kitchen. My colleagues even tested their soup base. It's not human flesh."

Not human flesh? Was I blind?

"I'm certain that was my boyfriend's tattoo. And I haven't heard from him in a month!"

"Oh?" The officer paused, his tone skeptical. "Then why didn't you file a report earlier?"

Because he left in anger. We'd quarreled over something trivial, and he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Normally, he'd return that same night or the next day, sheepish, carrying my favorite snacks as a peace offering.

But this time, he vanished.

At first, I thought I'd gone too far and called him to apologize, to beg him to come home. Every time, his phone was switched off. I remembered telling him I wanted to break up before he left, so when weeks passed without a word, I assumed he'd taken me at my word and ended things.

But today, staring at that tattoo in the organ soup, I realized the truth might be far darker.

I gave the police his information and explained everything in detail. They told me to wait for another call.

No sooner had I hung up than a commotion broke out downstairs.

I opened the window to see the soup shop's boss's wife shouting furiously in the street.

"So this is how you compete? Can't beat our business, so you frame us with filthy lies? Who was it? Come out and face me!"

Confusion stirred in my chest. Did she really think the police raid was the work of a jealous rival? If she had actually used human flesh in her soup, would she react this way, so openly and brazenly?

Could I have been mistaken?

Had my longing twisted my vision, turning a harmless inspection stamp into my boyfriend's tattoo?

Her husband, Roger Warwick, rushed out and pulled her back toward the shop. Everyone knew him as a timid, mild-mannered man. Whenever conflict arose, his wife was always the one who stepped forward, shielding him.

But then, as I wrestled with doubt, Roger suddenly lifted his head…and looked directly at me.

A chill stabbed down my spine. I ducked back, slammed the window shut, heart hammering.

His eyes had terrified me.

I'd seen that look in horror films: the quiet, introverted killers who, in a split second, would reveal the predator lurking beneath their meek exterior.

Could it be him? Was Roger the one who killed my boyfriend and turned him into soup, while his wife remained blissfully unaware?

Through the curtains, I watched as they closed the shop early. Normally, they stayed open past eleven, yet tonight the shutters came down just after dusk.

Moments later, there was a knock at my door.

"Who is it?" I called.

"Uh… it's me," came the reply. "I'm the boss of the organ soup shop downstairs."