We Buried the Monster in Bread / Chapter 6: The Alibi
We Buried the Monster in Bread

We Buried the Monster in Bread

Author: Megan James

Chapter 6: The Alibi

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Detective Warren’s pen hovered, unsure. “Ms. Natalie, every word you say now is legally binding. Are you really admitting to killing Caleb?” His accent softened, but his eyes were sharp.

Natalie’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet every word was razor-sharp. “Yes, I admit it. I’m the murderer. If I can’t kill the person who killed my daughter, what’s the point of living?” Her sobs rose, nose bleeding again as she wept into her hands. A female officer knelt beside her, rubbing her back, whispering comfort.

I was shocked but secretly impressed. Natalie’s pain was her armor. I saw Warren’s skepticism melt into discomfort. Criminal investigations are built on psychology and detail—most people can’t fake this kind of grief.

My plan had been to say as little as possible, but Natalie flipped the script, making her grief the centerpiece. Two younger officers looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

Detective Warren finally closed his notepad, sighing. He didn’t buy her confession—he thought it was just a broken mother venting. He moved on to the timeline: orders, oven times, customer lists, even which playlist she’d used. Surveillance showed Natalie was always in the shop, surrounded by customers and receipts.

As long as no one suspected an accomplice, her alibi was airtight. I made sure to be seen in the shop, just another neighbor with a coffee.

Detective Warren then pulled on gloves. “Ms. Natalie, if you don’t mind, we’d like to take a quick look around your shop.” He led his team through the bakery—one cop paused at the smell of fresh bread, another nervously accepted a cookie from Natalie, their discomfort obvious.

They bagged rolling pins, bread knives, aprons, and dusted for prints. The back room was tiny, but they checked every inch. Detective Warren, ever the baker’s grandson, admired the oven. “Nice setup. My grandma would’ve loved one of these.”

He asked about the oven’s highest temperature—Natalie answered calmly. I saw him calculating, but he found nothing. We’d been meticulous, even rigging the oven to burn hotter, just for one night.

After the search, Warren asked, “Any other properties or storage spaces?” Natalie shook her head, steady as stone. “No, we live upstairs. It’s just us.” The officers exchanged glances, but Natalie gave them nothing.

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