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So instead I baked cookies.
-Jabari DeBerry

A dozen. Straight out of a little blue easy bake package I bought in my local grocery chain for too much money. I found it soothing. Cathartic. Preheat oven, open the undone cookies all laid out in little moron proof squares and wait for the ding, etc etc. When it was all said and done they werent anything to write home about but something about the process spoke to me. This was something I could lose myself in. My life was gone; Laura had been everything and with her gone starting a new life in a cullinary school was just easier than crossing a busy street. I sold our place- three bedrooms full of memories was too much for me. A few phone calls to the insurance people, a few to the school, a letter of resignation to my captain and 12 years of policing all crammed into 3 standard size boxes in my trunk. I even had room for the little plants she suggested and I kept killing with my neglect. The crap cake I got on my last day was moist, but unremarkable- I have sense improved on the recipe.

Chocolate chip cookies are my speciality. And they should be. For three years I cultivated the recipe and tested it on little children and college kids who cant sleep at night and dont have healthy eating habits. I add a little this, a little that and the dozens keep shipping out. Always by the dozen. At my shop I sold them in cute little blue boxes; a little homage to the epiphany that was a cop turned baker. I personally walked every box out to little wooden tables facing the street. I made muffins too. Cakes, bars, we had gotten quite a following. An adorable little reporter had been stopping in a lot and I’m probably going to regret not spending more time with her but I made my wife a promise. I smiled at my customers and they smiled at me and every single day I went to the bank.

Business was good. I made enough to keep my flat on top of this place and managed to pay back my loans; bank and personal; and store up a nice little package of my own. One hundred thousand dollars to have it done and have it done right. It’s not going to be enough that I wont be found out. Chances are they were on their way when I closed up shop and pulled the blinds tonight. It’s a good department. They are good detectives. Theyll find out that I used the proceeds from my bakery to hire a hitman to kill the bastard who raped and murdered my wife and my little girl. Theyll get in their little blue cars and take the long drive down Polluck ave to my little bakery, surround it, enter it, and find me sitting at table 2 with whats left of a pot of coffee and the last dozen my bakery would ever produce. Complete with little blue box. My arrest will be quiet. My lawyer has been a loyal customer since my union days. She’ll suggest I keep my mouth shut, that I take some kind of deal or bargain, and she will be truly annoyed when I dont. What I did was wrong. I know that. I’ll live with the fact that my wife and little girl would probably frown on my actions and that because of those I wont be joining them.

One day, after my release or before it- I’ll get tired of this world and move on to the next. I wont be buried in my dress uniform, I wont get full colors but since the only people I cared to leave anything to are already in the ground that wont matter. I’ll be polishing my left shoe or counting the days and then I’ll be dead. And I’ll hunt that bastard up one side of hell and down the other.