Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA889JJ4TE6CQDH72M2TSE

The bell over the bakery door gave its tired little jingle, and warm air—yeast, cinnamon, and something buttery enough to be a confession—wrapped around them. Outside, Maple Street wore a rain sheen; inside, the display case shone like a jewel box. “So that’s it, then? You’re just going to pretend you didn’t see him?” “I saw plenty. I saw him buy two lemon tarts and ask for them in separate boxes. Like guilt needs packaging.” “Maybe he was being thoughtful.” “Thoughtful men don’t wipe fingerprints off the counter with a napkin they intend to throw away.” “Don’t start. Not in front of the croissants.” “Croissants have heard worse.” A tray clattered softly in the back. The baker’s radio hummed a sleepy old tune. “You’re saying the mayor came in here after the gala?” “I’m saying his cufflinks were still glittering. And he paid in cash. Who pays in cash for pastries anymore?” “People who don’t want a paper trail.” “Exactly.” A pause, filled by the hiss of the espresso machine and the sweet, steady smell of proofing dough. “You think the tart boxes were for evidence?” “I think one box went to the widow, and the other went to the river.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Then why was there powdered sugar on the missing person poster outside? Same fine dust. Same smug little sprinkle.” “Fine. We ask her.” “And if she lies?” “Then we order scones and listen harder.”