The early morning sun poured through the lace curtains of Willow’s Oven, casting delicate patterns on flour-dusted countertops. The scent of cinnamon rolls and freshly baked sourdough wrapped around the room like a warm blanket. A bell chimed as the door cracked open, and cold air slipped in with it. “I saw him again. Sitting in that same booth at the diner. Same plaid shirt.” “You’re kidding. He hasn’t left since Tuesday?” “Nope. Nurse at the clinic says he’s been getting daily checkups for a ‘rare digestive condition.’ But I looked him up—Dr. Finch retired five years ago.” “That’s suspicious, even for Maple Creek standards.” “I brought him a scone yesterday. Cranberry-orange. Watched him take one bite, then slip the rest into his coat pocket.” “You’re joking.” “Swear on Grandma Elsie’s rhubarb pie recipe. Found it later behind the newspaper rack.” “Maybe he’s feeding a stray.” “Then why did he leave his dentures on the table?” “Wait—what?!” “I picked them up, thinking to return them. But something felt off. The name engraved inside—‘Dale M. Pritchard.’ Ring any bells?” “That’s the guy who won last year’s apple butter contest. Disappeared two weeks later. Sheriff said he moved to Oregon.” “Oregon? The man couldn’t last two days west of the county line. Hated the highway.” “You think—?” “Just think we should keep an eye on Booth Three. And maybe stop serving him scones.” “Or maybe start using them as bait.”