The Last Piece of Sweetness

The autumn wind swept brittle leaves across the asphalt and curled the hem of my coat. In front of me lay Blackbird Lane—a quiet cul-de-sac that revealed its own eerie charm only on Halloween. Carved pumpkins flickered in every yard, their mocking grins throwing twisted light into the night. Children dressed as ghosts and witches darted from door to door, their cries of “Trick or treat!” echoing through the cold air.

But I, Detective Lennart Voss, wasn’t here for candy. At the far end of the street stood Harlow Manor—dark, unlit, silent. No jack-o’-lanterns, no laughter. It was here, exactly one year ago, that Alistair Finch had been murdered—stabbed with an antique paper knife from his own collection. The case had gone cold; the killer was never found.

Tonight I’d come back on a whim—a final attempt to make sense of what still refused to rest.

The woman who opened the door was Elara Finch, his niece and sole heir. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with a pale, delicate face and eyes that had seen too much. “Detective,” she said softly. “I thought the case was closed.”

“It is,” I answered. “This isn’t an official visit.”

The house smelled of wax and yesterday. She led me into the library—the scene of the crime. The carpet still held a faint, darker stain where her uncle had bled out. Above the fireplace hung his portrait, watching us with knowing eyes.

“He loved Halloween,” Elara murmured, glancing toward the children outside. “He spent weeks preparing every year. His specialty was handmade chocolate figures—unicorns, dragons, ghosts. He called them his ‘masterpieces.’”

There was something in her voice—an undercurrent of bitterness beneath the sorrow.

“You didn’t approve?” I asked quietly.

She shrugged. “He was obsessed with perfection. Every piece had to be flawless. Last year, before he… left, he planned something special—a limited edition just for the children on this street. Each figure was unique.”

The detail stirred an old memory: the evidence log. Among the ordinary candy there had been one entry that never quite fit—a small chocolate ghost the team had dismissed as irrelevant.

“In the bowl by the door,” I said slowly. “There was one of those figures, wasn’t there? A little ghost.”

Elara’s face froze for a heartbeat. “Yes,” she whispered. “No one wanted it. It stayed until the end.”

My phone buzzed. The station. “Voss, you asked us to pull the Finch evidence again. Everything’s here—except that chocolate figurine. According to the record it was cleared for disposal six months ago, but… no one knows who signed it off.”

I hung up. The rush of blood in my ears was deafening.

When I looked back, Elara was still by the window. Something white glimmered between her fingers—a tag from an evidence box: Case FA-Finch, Exhibit 7B – 1 × Chocolate Figurine (Ghost).

She turned. In her other hand she held it—the small, dark ghost.

A sad smile crossed her lips. “My uncle was a great artist,” she said softly. “But also a great liar.”

“That recipe for his limited series—he said it was a family secret. But I found my mother’s journals. It was hers. The last thing she left me before she died. He stole it, and when I confronted him, he laughed. He said I didn’t have the talent to understand.”

She stepped closer. The chocolate ghost gleamed faintly in her hand like a tiny, withered skull. “That night we argued. It was an accident—the paper knife was right there. But once it happened… I knew what I had to do. I finished his series. I poured the chocolate—his perfect recipe. Then I gave him one final piece of his art. I slipped it into his jacket pocket.”

Her eyes met mine—clear, unflinching. “You never analyzed the chocolate, did you, Detective? Just another piece of evidence. Unimportant.”

I said nothing. The truth hung between us—cold and heavy as the night outside.

Elara looked down at the figure, broke off a small piece, and placed it on her tongue. “Sweet,” she whispered. “And so bitter.”