Flour dust motes danced in the afternoon sun filtering through the stained-glass window, settling like snow on the pristine marble counter. "These cinnamon rolls are not ready." "They are proofing perfectly. Rising at their own pace." "At their own pace? They are sticking to the baking sheet. I can smell the bitterness from here. Did you forget to grease the pan again?" "It is the artisanal method. A small price for perfection." "Perfection involves being eaten, not left to die on a slab. Besides, I’m looking for a lost item. Something small, sticky, and red." "That went out with the morning delivery. Maybe you’re seeing things." "I don’t see things. I find things. Like missing ingredients. Where did you put the apricot jam?" "It’s in the back. I haven't opened it." "Sure. In the back." "Check the cellar." "There is no cellar. And stop looking at me like that. You’re hiding something."