Hand over the bakery keys, sweetheart, before I have you escorted out like the

Roland chuckled, leaning against the display case full of croissants I’d baked at sunrise. “Call whoever you want, princess. That will won’t change. Your father left the building to the eldest male heir. That’s me.” His lawyers nodded in unison like trained pigeons. I dialed a number I knew by heart. “Mr. Avery? It’s Clara. He came. Yes, with the 1998 will.” I hung up and finally met Roland’s eyes. “You should have done your homework, Uncle. That document you’re waving was revoked in 2019.” His smile twitched. “Impossible. Your father was sick. He couldn’t have—” “He could,” I said. “And he did. Right after he caught you forging his signature on that second mortgage you took out in his name. Remember the one you used to buy your boat?” The color drained from his face. The front door chimed. In walked Mr. Avery, the family attorney, alongside two detectives and my father’s accountant. Avery placed a thick folder on the counter. “The bakery, the building, and the trademark were transferred entirely to Clara Hartley in 2019. Your father also left a notarized statement detailing the forgery, to be released only if you ever tried to claim the property.” One of Roland’s lawyers actually took a step backward, as if distancing himself from a sinking ship. The detective cleared his throat. “Mr. Hartley, we’d like you to come downtown and answer a few questions about a 2017 loan application.” Roland’s mouth opened and closed like one of the fish in his precious aquarium. My mother let out a small sob, then a laugh, then both. I picked up my apron, slid it back over my head, and tied the strings my father had stitched. “The shop opens in twenty minutes,” I said, turning to the oven. “You’re standing where my customers line up, Uncle. I’d suggest you move.” As they led him out past the morning crowd already gathering on the sidewalk, I pulled a fresh tray of sourdough from the oven. It smelled exactly like my father’s hands.