Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAB59Z520Q2C220ZA5TTPF

The bell above the door jingled, and Mrs. Hargrove adjusted her flour-dusted apron, eyeing the scarlet sedan parked across the street—new, same model as the one that had lingered outside the hardware store twice this week. “Jesse, pass me the raisins, dear.” Her assistant, a lanky teen with a smudge of cocoa on his cheek, obliged, then nodded toward the door. “That Miller fella’s in again. Staring at the display like he’s tryin’ to read the labels.” Mrs. Hargrove glanced up. “Miller? The one with the silver hair? Yeah, he came in yesterday askin’ about blueberry muffins—said he had a ‘breakfast meeting.’ Cakes, now. He wants a triple-chocolate layered, extra fudge. Odd, that—he never orders more than a scone.” Jesse leaned in. “And his coat? Flour on the shoulder, like he’s been kneadin’ something. But he’s got a holdall. Full of papers, maybe? Not tools.” Mrs. Hargrove set the muffin tin down, her brow furrowed. “Triple-chocolate’s not a meeting cake. More like… a celebration. Or a farewell.” The bell jingled again, and Jesse called, “Mornin’, ma’am—” Then trailed off. Mrs. Hargrove looked up. Miller was holding a paper bag, but his eyes were fixed on the cash register, not the pastries. She whispered, “Jesse, check the till. See if he paid.”