Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HQB67GJ68D74H61AVR44D

The bell over the bakery door gave its polite little jingle as warm cinnamon air wrapped around the room. Morning light pooled across the glass case, catching on apricot danishes, sugared buns, and a neat row of lavender shortbread. “You’re early.” “So are you, which makes this feel less like coincidence and more like stalking.” “If I were stalking you, I’d have chosen a place with worse coffee.” “The coffee is excellent. It’s your opinions that are bitter.” A laugh slipped between them. Behind the counter, bread cooled on racks with tiny crackling sighs. “You bought the last honey cruller.” “I bought two, actually. I simply wasn’t advertising it.” “How selfish.” “How prepared.” A paper bag was nudged across the counter. The faint dark smear on one corner did not look like chocolate. “You found it there?” “Tucked under the mixer. Folded twice.” “And no one else saw?” “Not unless Mrs. Weller has suddenly developed a talent for minding her own business.” The bag opened with a careful rustle. Inside, beneath the second cruller, lay a flour-dusted recipe card. “That’s Edith’s handwriting.” “That’s what worries me.” “Because she’s been dead ten years?” “Because the card says the same thing the note in the church raffle basket did.” A pause. Outside, a truck rumbled past. “Read it again.” “Meet me before dawn. Come alone.” “In a bakery full of gossips, that’s practically a confession.”