Run: 2026-09-03-01M1M052SSV9YAAZ2GFY50B5SK

The sourdough cooled in the window case, its crust crackling with every tick of the oven timer. Vanilla and caramel drifted over the marble counter, but the register drawer gaped a few dollars short. A copper bell above the door had been jiggled too hard, leaving a faint scratch on the paint. Someone set a napkin beside the cash box, then folded its corner with suspicious care. You didn’t bake the lemon loaves yesterday. No one baked them. The delivery van didn’t arrive before six. The health inspector came by before closing. His shoes were muddy. Muddy? The sidewalk had been dry since breakfast, and the rain ended two days ago. Then who put the note in the proofing cabinet? It was warm when I found it, tucked beneath the butter croissants. The cabinet? That’s impossible. The bread room was locked, and I threw the new key away. Not impossible. Just inconvenient. Mrs. Bellamy asked for the recipe card again. I told her I’d send it by morning. She looked at the window while she smiled. Looking at a window is not a confession. No. But a new lock on the back door, and a flour handprint on the inside handle, is.