The morning sun slanted through the lace curtains of Sweet Thyme Bakery, dusting the flour-dusted counter in gold. Cinnamon and burnt sugar hung in the air, mingling with the soft chime of the bell above the door. "Did you hear? Old Mrs. Pembleton’s prize rosebush was dug up in the night. Roots and all." "That’s hardly news. Everyone knows Marvin from the hardware store’s been coveting that Crimson Delight for years. Bragged he’d pay triple, and she refused." "Not Marvin. He was fixing Mrs. Gable’s porch swing—whole town saw him. No, it’s someone who knew she’d be at the church ladies’ breakfast. Someone who timed it just right." "The garden gate wasn’t forced. So someone she let in? Or… someone with a key?" "Coincidence that her sapphire brooch went missing too? Same morning. Same hour." "Wouldn’t surprise me. That brooch has been in the Pembleton family since the 1800s. Perfect for pawning if you know the right person. Or the wrong one." "You think it’s connected?" "I think no one digs up a rosebush just for the petals. Especially not at four a.m. There’s dirt under someone’s nails today, and it’s not from gardening." A loaf cracked in the oven, breaking the silence. Outside, a blue pickup rattled past—slow, deliberate—its bed suspiciously empty.