Run: 2026-09-23-01M36SE8635RSNR4GGSENXEK0F

I pushed open the door of Honeycrust Bakery and the bell above me chimed like a tiny warning bell. The air smelled of cinnamon and something darker—fear, maybe. "Anybody home?" "Just me, just like always." Marlene wiped the counter with a cloth that had seen better decades. "Coffee's on if you want it. Can't say the muffins are trustworthy, though." "What happened to them?" "They came out perfect. That's the problem." She set the cloth down and leaned closer. "Maudlin Baker-Whitfield never trusted perfect anything. And now she's dead." I grabbed a muffin anyway, broke it in half. Blueberries bled purple into my fingers. "The coroner said poison." "The coroner said lots of things." Marlene's eyes flicked to the back kitchen door. "But he didn't explain the note I found tucked inside the flour jar." "A note?" "Pie crust recipe. Handwritten. Signed *Wilhelmina*." She paused. "That was Maudlin's maiden name. She'd been dead six hours before someone scribbled a recipe in my flour." Outside, the town clock struck nine. Somewhere behind us, the kitchen door creaked open, slow and deliberate, though no breeze was blowing.