Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFEC1CTNFYMY2WZX5QAZ3P1

The bell above the door gave its familiar tinkle, but not even that could shake the tension hanging in the warm air of Marlowe & Sons Bakery. "The vanilla's gone." "Check the pantry shelf. Second level, behind the almond extract." "I already looked. Someone moved it. Someone moved all of it." Flour dusted the worn wooden counter like fresh snowfall, undisturbed except for the single brown stain near the register. The kind of stain you notice after you've already touched it. The kind you don't want to think about. "Since when do you keep vanilla behind almond extract?" "I don't." Silence settled between them, heavy as unbaked dough. The wall clock—a rooster with a missing comb, a gift from the elementary schoolchildren three Christmases past—ticked on. "Mrs. Pemberton said she heard something last night. After closing." "Mrs. Pemberton hears everything. That woman could eavesdrop through a hurricane." "She specifically said the back door." The mixer hummed its usual lazy rhythm. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, the street outside carried on—morning joggers, the mail truck, the whole ordinary machinery of a town that didn't know what this place looked like at midnight. "You're not suggesting—" "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm asking why our vanilla is missing and there's a stain on the register that wasn't there yesterday." Another silence. Longer this time. "The vanilla," the voice finally said, quieter now, "is the least of our problems."