Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KC1Q9HCHYXSVRGDAEY4XA9

The bell above the door chimed, its echo swallowed by the yeasty warmth that clung to the flour-dusted air. Maple and cinnamon hung like a stubborn secret. A woman in a flour-dusted apron wiped the marble counter, her eyes flicking to the two men in the corner booth. "She used the blueberry scones. The ones with the almond glaze." "You're sure? The recipe hasn't changed in forty years." "Exactly. That's the problem. The almond was off. Bitter." "Bitter enough to kill a horse, or just ruin a breakfast?" "Bitter enough that Harold Finch, who's allergic to almonds, only *smelled* it. He did that big sniff before he went down." "So the killer knew about the allergy. Knew he'd sniff before eating." "And knew he'd be here at 7:15 sharp for his morning coffee." "But the scones are behind the glass. Only you and I have keys to that case." "And Mabel. She was out back rolling dough. I saw her." "Or did you *see* her? The view from the register to the kitchen is blocked by the croissant rack." A heavy silence settled, punctuated only by the drip-drip of the coffee maker. "That rack's been moved twice this week. Someone's been counting steps." "Counting steps to what?" "To the back door. The one that leads to the alley. The one that was unlocked when they found Harold."