The bell above the door jingled as Margaret wiped down the counter, her hands still dusted with flour. "I heard you were the last person to see Harold that morning." "Word travels fast. I sold him his usual—blueberry scone and black coffee. Same as every Tuesday for the past fifteen years." "Did he seem... different? Worried about anything?" "Harold? That man never worried about a thing in his life. Though now that you mention it, he kept looking out the window. Checking his watch." "What time was this?" "Six-thirty, like clockwork. But here's the strange part—he asked for a second scone. To go. Said it was for someone special." "Harold was notoriously cheap. Never bought anything extra." "Exactly what I thought. And when I asked who the lucky person was, he just smiled and said 'an old friend' with this peculiar look in his eye." "Did you see which direction he went?" "Toward the park. And before you ask, yes, he had that leather satchel with him. The one everyone's been asking about." "Margaret, you might be the only person in this town who actually knows what happened to Harold Finch."