Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAEXZFC64QXXN1FSF0RM22

The bell over the bakery door gave a polite jingle, like it didn’t want to startle the morning. Warm air rolled out—cinnamon, butter, and something toasted to a perfect brown. “Tell me that’s not blood on your apron.” “It’s raspberry jam. I’m offended on behalf of fruit.” “Mm-hm. And the jam also explains why the sheriff’s cruiser was parked outside at six a.m.?” “He wanted scones. The man’s a menace to carbs.” “Then why did he look like he’d swallowed a stapler?” A tray clattered behind the counter. Flour drifted in the sunlight like tiny ghosts. “Because someone left a note under the register.” “What kind of note?” “The kind that says, ‘Stop asking questions.’ Spelled wrong. Twice.” “You collect threats now? Is that a loyalty program?” “Very funny. It was tucked under the cash box like someone knew where my hands go without looking.” “And you didn’t call anyone.” “I did. I called you.” Silence, punctuated by the hiss of the espresso machine. The glass case gleamed with glazed buns and lemon bars, innocent as church. “Show me.” “It’s in the bread drawer. Don’t laugh.” “Why would I—oh. That’s not a bread drawer. That’s a hiding place.” “I prefer ‘creative storage.’” The paper slid out, crumpled and flour-smudged. “‘Stop askng qestions,’” a breath. “Whoever wrote this bakes as badly as they spell.” “Or they don’t bake at all.” “And in this town, that narrows it down to what—three people and a cat?”