Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKACGTCJC9S56F1AW0EX839

I can smell the cardamom from the sidewalk; you must be nervous. Nervous or poisoned. Taste this pinch—go on. That’s salt in the sugar bin. Who would do that in this town? We argue over pie crusts, not morals. Someone with a heavy hand and a grudge. Look at the sugar: coarse crystals. Not from here. You’re right. You use fine. And the lid’s on crooked. The bell above the door didn’t ring? Only rang once, before sunrise. I thought it was the dairy delivery. I was rolling out dough. And left a drift of flour by the register, which now has a perfect boot print. Too small for Hank. Too tidy for the fishmonger. That’s a boutique heel. Someone who carries a key, then. Or knows where you keep the spare, under the potted rosemary that isn’t fooling anyone. I moved the spare last month. Which means they had a key, and a reason. Check under the lemon tarts. A note. Butter-splattered, how considerate. “Stop baking for the festival or the next batch burns.” They underestimate how often I smell smoke. And how much I hate bullies. Festival judges adore your morning buns. Sabotage makes you a frontrunner. Or a target. Hand me the cinnamon. If we’re being threatened, we’ll need extra glaze.