Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma, before you embarrass yourself any further — you

Brielle tapped the paperwork. “It’s a transfer of ownership, Grandma. Sign it. I’ve already got investors lined up — we’re gutting this place and turning it into a matcha lounge. You can keep baking at home. For fun.” The lawyer cleared his throat. “Mrs. Halloran, your granddaughter has been managing the financials for eighteen months. There are… concerning irregularities. It would be in your best interest to sign voluntarily before the bank gets involved.”

I finally spoke. “Irregularities. That’s a polite word, isn’t it.” I wiped my hands slowly on my apron. “Brielle, sweetheart. Do you remember last Christmas, when you told me I was too old for online banking and offered to ‘simplify’ my accounts?”

Her smile twitched. “Grandma—”

“I let you think I signed everything over.” I reached under the counter and pulled out a thin leather folder. “But my friend Margaret’s son is a forensic accountant. He’s been watching every transfer you made into your personal account since February. The car. The Cabo trip. The forty-one thousand dollars you moved to a shell LLC in your boyfriend’s name.”

The lawyer’s face went the color of raw dough.

The bell over the door jingled. Two detectives stepped inside, followed by a woman from the small business administration holding a clipboard. “Brielle Halloran?” the older detective said gently. “We need you to come with us.”

Brielle’s mouth opened. Closed. “Grandma, please — I’m family—”

“So was your grandfather,” I said quietly. “He worked thirty-hour shifts so this counter would mean something. You tried to sell his name for a matcha lounge.” I slid her own paperwork back across the glass. “I’m not pressing charges on one condition. You spend the next two years working off every cent. Here. In this apron. Behind this counter. At minimum wage.”

She started to cry. I turned to the morning customers, who had gone very still, and smiled. “Cinnamon braids are fresh, folks. On the house today.” Then I tied a clean apron and held it out to my granddaughter. “Wash your hands first, sweetheart. We open in ten minutes.”

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