Soft morning light filters through lace curtains onto flour-dusted countertops. Two women stand behind the display case, arranging pastries. One rolls a baguette, the other gently places strawberry tarts into the glass. “So you saw him here last night?” “He slipped in right before closing, hood up. I heard a crash from the storeroom.” “That’s odd. I lock up tight every evening.” A chill drifts through the open door brimstone-scented. The baker pauses, hands hovering over dough. “He wore gloves. Clean, like he planned ahead.” “Did you notice his shoes? Mud from the riverbank.” The other hums, examining a broken butter dish. “He didn’t have time to hide anything obvious.” “Maybe he stashed something behind the flour sacks?” A soft thud echoes from the back. “We should look.” They slip between cupboards, shadows stretching long. The stench of raisins and icing sugar fades as they descend a narrow staircase. Beneath the sacks, a latch peeks from dark wood. “Ready?” A hand reaches out. The latch creaks. Inside, they discover a worn leather satchel – its brass lock broken, contents hidden from both light and law. “We should call the sheriff.” “Not yet. We need proof first.”