The morning sun slanted through the front window of Butter & Thyme, catching flour motes in the air like tiny stars. The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar wrapped around the room like a woolen blanket. “You’re in early.” “Couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about that pie.” “The one with the lattice crust? It looked perfect.” “Someone loosened a screw in the display case last night. Not enough to notice—just enough to make it wobble if you leaned on it. And I didn’t.” Silence, broken only by the tapping of a spatula against a baking sheet. “You think someone was in here after we locked up?” “I think the screw was tight when I left at seven. And this morning, it was half out. Like someone needed room to slip something in—or out.” “Nothing’s missing, is it?” “The pecan pie meant for the Hendersons’ anniversary? Gone. But the money box is untouched.” “That’s odd. Maybe they just liked your pie.” “That was the experimental salted-caramel batch. No one likes it that much.” A bell jingled above the door, and a dachshund trotted in, trailing a leash and staring longingly at the muffin basket. “Mabel’s dog again. She really needs to stop letting him wander.” “He knows where the truth is buried. Probably under a blueberry scone.”