Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY93GNSP91B6D3TAJ7NHRT0

The bell above the door jangled, and Clara looked up from dusting the display case, her flour-dusted hands pausing. "Back so soon, then?" she said, a smile in her voice. "Couldn’t wait," came the reply, warm and into the bag of fresh croissants. "Your lemon bars are lethal. In the best way." Clara snorted, reaching for a cloth. "Lethal? I call it life-sustaining. What can I get you today? Oh—" She glanced at the scale. "Mrs. Hargrove’s order for the church supper. Three dozen rolls. They should be ready by four." The other voice hummed agreement. "Heard a car idling out front earlier. Fancy sedan, not the usual beat-up trucks. Parked right by the oak. You see him?" Clara paused. The sedan. She’d seen it, but thought it was just the tax man. "No. Too busy. You want a scone? On the house. Today’s blueberry—" "Actually…" The voice lowered. "My niece’s birthday tomorrow. Was gonna get her that vanilla buttercream you make. But the sign’s down. The case is empty." Clara’s brow lifted. She’d just refilled it that morning. "Vanilla buttercream? Did you check the back? Sometimes I—" The bell jangled again, sharper. Both fell silent. A man’s voice, smooth and too bright, called, "Hello? Anybody here? Mind if I take a look around? Wife forgot her wallet at home, and I’d hate to keep her waiting." Clara’s eyes met the other person’s. The sedan. The vanilla buttercream, she thought, suddenly cold in her chest.