Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFJ6MX2S6B24PRGMQVCQ95Y

Gingham curtains filtered honeyed morning light over the bakery’s marble counter, where sugar-dusted lemon bars sat beside a chipped pot of cinnamon coffee. The bell above the door had long fallen silent, only the soft scrape of a spatula sweeping crumbs off a croissant tin breaking the quiet. You left the back propped open again last night. Mabel’s cat got stuck in the maple out front, I ran to grab a step ladder, wasn’t gone ten minutes tops. What’s missing? Not the cash drawer, never that. The tin Mrs. Hale dropped off last week, the one with her silver engagement locket she was auctioning for the library’s new children’s section? Gone. I stashed it behind the vanilla bean canisters, no tourist would’ve found that spot. The new handyman? You said he stopped by day before yesterday to check the fire suppression system, hung around the back counter forever pestering you about your sourdough starter. He left town at sunrise, the motel clerk called to say he caught the first bus out of the county. Don’t sweat it. The locket he stole’s a fake. I moved the real one to the bank’s safe deposit box that same day, knew he was casing the place. The tin he swiped’s full of those bitter spearmint drops no one in town will touch. A snort echoed, followed by the clink of two mugs. Serves him right.