Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07J9188S9QVWRX1HZRAYAX

Flour hung in the warm air like a soft fog, turning the late-morning sunlight into something almost golden. Maribel slid a tray of cinnamon buns toward the display case, then wiped her hands on her apron. The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle that didn’t quite match the tense hush in the room. “You’re sure it was him?” Rowan asked, leaning over the counter as if the question might crumble into evidence. “It was his coat,” Maribel said, tapping the counter where a single dark button had rolled earlier. “And the receipt—see? He bought nutmeg, not cinnamon. But he swore he’d been baking today.” Rowan picked up the button between two fingers, turning it under the light. “This one’s from a tailor shop in Hawthorne. Not one of ours.” Maribel’s eyes flicked to the bulletin board by the ovens, where flyers for the town bake-off curled at the edges. “So why come here at all? He knew just where the spice jars are.” A muffin in the display case sat perfectly domed, innocent as ever. Rowan lowered his voice. “Maybe he didn’t come for the buns.” Maribel stared at the cinnamon tins. “Then he came for something that’s missing.” Rowan glanced at the back door. “And that’s what we’re going to find out—before the sheriff does.”