Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G7197CX18BNV40GC61P2W

The bell above the door jingled as Margaret shook rain from her umbrella, the scent of cinnamon and yeast wrapping around her like a wool shawl. "You're late. I saved you the last cardamom bun." "Bless you. I'd have walked through a hurricane for it." "You practically did. Sit down before you drip on my clean floor." Margaret settled onto the stool at the counter, wrapping cold hands around the mug that appeared in front of her. "So. Did you hear about Eleanor's greenhouse?" "Hear about it? I watched the constable tramp past my window at six this morning, mud up to his knees." "Then you know about the trowel." "I know a trowel was mentioned. I don't know whose." "Harold Finch's. Monogrammed handle and everything." The silence that followed was thick enough to spread on toast. A spoon clinked against porcelain. "Harold Finch hasn't gardened a day in his life." "Exactly what I said. Which means someone wanted us to think he had." "Or someone borrowed it." "From a man who keeps his shed padlocked like it's Fort Knox?" "Pass me that bun back. I need to think, and I can't think hungry."