Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ81MJW521057NNFMXJZ516

The scent of cinnamon and espresso hung thick in the bakery’s golden light. “You sure you didn’t see her come in? Mrs. Peabody was supposed to pick up the blueberry scones an hour ago.” “She called last week, right? Said she’d left a deposit for the scones. Maybe she got stuck at the vet’s? Mr. Whiskers *is* a bit of a worrywart.” “I’m not talking about the cat. I’m talking about her granddaughter. Lila. Didn’t you hear? Her apartment’s been empty for days.” The register chimed. A man in a sheriff’s vest stepped inside, shaking rain from his shoulders. Both of them turned, the woman behind the counter adjusting her apron, the other—taller, in a wool coat—lifting a coffee cup to his lips as if it might steady him. “She’s not here,” the baker said, too quickly. The sheriff’s gaze lingered on the pie case. “Strained cranberry filling. She always made that for the fall festival. You’re using her recipe?” “She contributed it, yes. But I’ve got my own twist. Extra clove, maybe. A splash of lemon.” The taller man set the cup down. “That’s not what June Porter said. She said your batches taste… different. Less sweet.” The baker’s eyes flicked to the back door, where a smear of mud clung to the threshold. “June’s got a refined palate.Likes her desserts like her roads—sugared and straight.” A bell jingled as the sheriff reached for a croissant. “You’re not worried she might show up? With a claim that you—what was it?—'misappropriated’ her family’s signature recipe?” The woman slid a key across the counter, her smile tight as a dough twist. “If she does, point her to the journal. Third shelf, left side. We all need a little inspiration.” He caught the key, studied it. “Or maybe just point her to the security cameras. They’re pretty cozy around here… until someone knocks them offline.”