Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4017EKDW1SXDXQVWC2Q2C7

The bell above the bakery door gave a nervous jingle as rain ticked against the windows. “You’re here early.” “So are you.” “I own the place. It’s suspicious when you’re here before the ovens.” “I smelled cinnamon rolls from half a block away.” “You always say that, even when I bake rye.” “Rye is innocent. Cinnamon rolls are evidence.” She slid a paper bag across the counter. “Then explain this.” He peered inside. “A powdered-sugar footprint?” “On the office floor. Beside the locked cash drawer.” “Could be yours.” “I wear slippers with stars. This is a boot print.” “Could be the delivery man.” “He hasn’t arrived. His truck is still at home.” The old clock coughed out seven chimes. Somewhere in the kitchen, a tray clattered. “You heard that, didn’t you?” “I heard the oven.” “The oven doesn’t slam doors.” “It does when the hinges are loose.” “Then why is the back door bolted from the inside?” He glanced toward the kitchen. “Maybe the thief never left.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” A floury handprint appeared on the glass of the pastry case. Neither moved. “Still think it’s the hinges?” “No,” he whispered. “I think your bakery has a ghost.” “Ghosts don’t steal money.” “Maybe this one wanted a sweet roll.” The kitchen door creaked open. A tabby cat padded out, dragging a ring of keys beneath its belly. She stared. “Marmalade.” He sighed. “The town’s least remorseful criminal.”