Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9PTSXK5TQPRV2BVAYMY324

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual cheerful jingle, though nothing felt cheerful beneath the warm haze of cinnamon and yeast. Morning light pooled across the glass cases, catching on sugared knots and apricot tarts, while behind the counter a tray of scones cooled beside the till. “You’re early.” “You’re open.” “Barely. The coffee’s still deciding whether it wants to be coffee.” “I’m not here for coffee.” “No one ever says that unless they’re here for trouble.” A pause settled between the wicker bread baskets. “Did you hear?” “In a town this size, I heard three versions before dawn. Which one do you mean?” “The one with Mr. Pembroke.” “The one where he slipped on the church steps, the one where he ran off with the librarian, or the one where he was found face-down in the alley behind the flower shop?” “The alley.” Flour dust drifted in the sunbeams like pale smoke. “They’re calling it a fall.” “And you don’t believe that.” “He came in yesterday for a blackberry turnover. Paid with exact change. Hands steady. Shoes polished. A man planning to die in an alley doesn’t ask whether the blackberries were local.” “Maybe he changed his mind after the turnover.” “No. But he did leave this.” A folded paper appeared on the counter, tucked beneath the edge of a cherry pie stand. “That’s a receipt.” “Turn it over.” “…Maple Lane. Half past nine.” “Exactly.” “Why give it to you?” “He didn’t. He hid it in the tip jar.”