Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GT8C2G4GQ5C56JJXDW6ATZ

Morning light caught the sugar dust drifting above the counter. "You're icing those wrong." "I've been icing cinnamon rolls since before you moved here." "And Harold bought two dozen every Friday for eleven years. Until last week." "What are you saying?" "Three dozen, then four, then nothing. And he paid cash. Harold never paid cash." "Maybe he was celebrating something." "With extra pastry and no explanation? Harold tells you what he had for breakfast before he says good morning." The oven door groaned open, releasing cardamom and a wall of heat. "Careful—that tray's still hot." "You really think something happened to him." "I think Sheriff Pratt called it an accident awfully fast. A man falls down his own basement stairs, alone, the very week he starts feeding company nobody ever saw?" "That's not fair. Pratt grew up with Harold." "Exactly my point." The bell above the door chimed. Both women froze, and the frosting bag sagged, spilling a white spiral across the glass case. "Morning, ladies. Something smells wonderful." "Morning, Sheriff." "Just a coffee. Black." "Of course. On the house." "Huh. How'd you know I take it black?" "Everyone knows, dear. It's a small town."