My coworker brought me sticky buns every day, and I gave them to a stray cat. A month later, the police cordoned off the median planter in front of our office.

Lucy arrived every morning with a small cooler. She said the sticky buns were freshly made, prepared by her aunt as a gesture of affection.

I always smiled and thanked her, even though I didn’t really like them. As soon as she turned around, I would discreetly slip out to the back stairwell and leave the food for a stray cat that lived near some cardboard boxes.

This went on for a whole month.

Until everything changed.

One morning, the building’s groundskeeper was cleaning the median in front of the office when his shovel hit something buried. At first, he thought it was a pipe, but upon looking closer, he froze.

Half an hour later, the police had cordoned off the entire area. Someone pointed toward the windows of our office and said: —”They threw things from up there every day.”

I felt an immediate shiver.

1. The Routine

Lucy was quiet, polite, and extremely punctual. Her desk was right across from mine. One day she started bringing me homemade sticky buns, and since then, she never missed a day.

I didn’t want to be rude, so I pretended to eat a little in front of her. Then I took the rest to the cat.

The animal was skinny and skittish, but little by little, he started waiting for me every morning. It was our silent routine.

Until one day, the cat disappeared. I thought he had simply found another place. But that same afternoon, the police showed up.

The officers checked the median area because some plants had withered strangely over the last few weeks. And under the dirt, they found bags with illegal chemical waste used to contaminate the soil.

2. The Interrogation

Two officers took me to the conference room. They explained that they had reviewed the security cameras. For thirty days in a row, I appeared heading out to the back stairwell at the exact same time.

—”What were you carrying in your hands?” the female officer asked. —”Sticky buns.” —”Who gave them to you?” —”My coworker, Lucy.”

The officers looked at each other. They asked me for one of that day’s sticky buns. They put it in an evidence bag without touching it directly.

—”We found toxic substances in the soil of the median,” the officer explained.

I felt my heart pounding in my chest. —”What does that have to do with me?” —”We need to know if this food contains the same compounds.”

I couldn’t answer. For the first time, the sticky buns seemed dangerous.

3. The Message

That night I spoke with my husband, Carl. I expected him to be worried. But he reacted far too calmly.

—”I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” he said without taking his eyes off the television.

His indifference unsettled me more than the investigation itself. Before going to sleep, I remembered that I had saved a sticky bun in the freezer a few days ago. I took it out and cut it in half.

The smell was strange. Artificial. Bitter. Inside the dough, there was an almost invisible dark powder. I felt nauseous.

Then my cell phone vibrated. An unknown number had sent a message: —”Did your cat enjoy today’s sticky bun?”

I froze.

4. The Truth

The next morning, the police returned. But this time, they came for Lucy.

She stood up calmly, grabbed her purse, and before leaving, gave me an unsettling smile.

Hours later, I was called in again to give a statement. The officer placed several documents on the table.

—”The lab results confirmed that the sticky buns contained toxic chemicals used to contaminate and destroy evidence.”

I felt the air vanish from my lungs. —”We also tracked the origin of the message you received.”

My voice trembled. —”Who sent it?”

The officer looked up. —”The phone is registered in your husband’s name.”

The world stopped.

5. The Final Twist

That night, the police escorted me home. Carl was sitting in the living room, completely calm.

When he saw me walk in, he said: —”So they figured it out.”

I couldn’t speak. —”Lucy is my sister,” he confessed calmly.

I felt my legs give way. He explained that for months they had been using the sticky buns to transport small bags of illegal substances without raising suspicion. I, unknowingly, carried them every morning to the back of the building. The median was the drop point where they hid everything.

—”We needed someone reliable,” he said. “Someone who would never suspect a thing.”

The pieces suddenly clicked into place. The cat. The routine. The sticky buns. Everything.

—”I just wanted to feed a hungry animal…” I whispered.

Carl looked down for the first time. But it was too late.

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Epilogue

Carl and Lucy were arrested weeks later for crimes related to trafficking illegal substances and environmental contamination. The police discovered other drop locations used in the exact same way.

I was let go. Because I truly never knew what I was transporting.

But every morning, when I arrive at the office… I still look toward the stairwell. Waiting to see the cat appear again. Even though I know he probably never will.