Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR603W7S37EKT7JVB5MDNN

The bell over the door jangled, and a gust of November air rolled across the flour-dusted floor. "You're early. The cinnamon twists won't be out till nine." "I didn't come for the twists. I came because Delia Rourke's car was parked behind the church at two in the morning, and you're the only person in this town who's awake at two in the morning." "I'm awake because bread doesn't rise on its own, not because I've taken up spying on the widowed." "So you did see her." "I saw a car. I saw a coat. I saw somebody carrying a box that was too heavy for them, which is why I nearly went out to help, and then I thought better of it." "Why?" "Because the box had Harold Pettigrew's name stenciled on the side, and Harold Pettigrew has been dead since August." A long pause. Somewhere in the back, an oven timer ticked toward zero. "You could have mentioned that yesterday." "You could have asked me yesterday. Instead you sat right there eating two scones and telling me about your sister's gallbladder." "That was a very serious gallbladder." "Sit down. I'll pour the coffee. And close the door — you're letting all the warm out."