Run: 2026-09-01-01M1EPFFY6GZVAZ6XXNDJRGYWF

The bell above the door jangled, letting in a bite of autumn air that settled among the flour canisters. Marisol turned from the oven, wiping her hands on her apron. "You’re early." "I’m never early." A coat was pulled tighter, as if shielding secrets. "I heard you needed a second opinion on the scones." She frowned at the silver tin on the counter. "They smell fine to me." "They smell like almonds." A long pause. "But not the ones we ordered." Marisol reached for the bag behind her. The label had been peeled away and re-glued with a crooked seam. "This came from the back door." "The delivery was at dawn." "Who else is up at dawn?" At the far table, a newspaper rustled. Eyes flicked their way. Marisol lowered her voice. "The old mill is closed. The only truck that comes through is Miller’s, and he’s in Chicago until Thursday." "Exactly." Footsteps scraped against the tile. "So how did this get here?" She picked up a scone—perfectly round, too perfect, a gloss of icing dripping like a confession. "I think someone is baking messages into the dough." "Then we need to read them before Tuesday." "Tuesday is the bake sale." "Tuesday is also when Mrs. Halloway’s will is read." The oven timer dinged. Marisol glanced at the window, where a white van idled beside the dumpster, its sides blank, its headlights dark.