It was Tuesday at dawn, and the scent of fresh yeast floated in the air. The pastel wallpaper felt cheerful, but the hush felt ominous. Morning sunlight filtered through lace curtains, illuminating rows of pastries. "Something doesn’t add up." "The cinnamon rolls never vanish before noon." "A footprint by the back door. Tiny, almost childlike." "I thought it was Mrs. Davenport’s grandson visiting." "The flour sack was half-empty, not the usual stash." "Maybe someone needed bread more than money." "The safe was untouched." "Then why rearranged the display case?" "A missing eclair, trampled crumbs, and a hastily closed oven." "A distraction?" "Distracted from something else?" "The ledger is out of sync." "The last entry is smudged." "Could be spilled coffee." "Or a hurried sleight of hand." "Keep an eye on Mrs. Davenport." "She’s been nervous lately." "And Mr. Harlow. He’s been buying strange amounts of sugar." "A sugar rush might explain the jitters." "But not the broken lock." "Perhaps an accomplice hid inside the flour barrel." "Seems like a recipe for disaster." A bell chimed as the clock struck nine, and the bakery door swung open, revealing a figure cloaked in early-morning mist. "What did they want?" A question lingered above the ovens.