Poisoned Parfait

The sticky sweetness of a July afternoon clung to everything, from the worn wooden planks of the boardwalk to August’s own determined frown. The salty air, usually a balm, felt heavy, thick with an unspoken tension that had settled over their little beach town like a persistent fog. It had only been a few days since Captain Finnigan’s boat had been found adrift, empty save for a lingering scent of brine and something metallic, and now this.

“It’s not right, Bree,” August murmured, her voice barely a whisper above the cheerful din of the arcade next door. She gestured with the scoop, a half-formed swirl of blueberry ripple clinging to its edge. “Another one. And it wasn’t even *our* ice cream.”

Bree, her usually bright eyes clouded with a similar unease, nodded, wiping down the counter with more force than necessary. “Mrs. Gable. Said it was that… that fancy parfait from Silas Croft’s place. The one with the little chocolate fish on top.” She made a face. “She was green. Real green. Said her stomach felt like it was trying to escape her body.”