Brielle waved the deed in the air like a trophy. “I’m contesting this. Dad wasn’t in his right mind. I’ve already called a lawyer — we’re selling to the Whitlock Group by Friday.” The Whitlock Group. The developers who’d been circling Cedar Street for two years, trying to bulldoze every family business for luxury condos. My hands didn’t shake. I wiped them slowly on my apron and walked to the register, where I kept a thin manila folder under the cash drawer. Dad had given it to me the night before he died. “Open this only if she tries,” he’d whispered. I slid it across the counter. Brielle rolled her eyes and flipped it open. Her face went the color of raw dough. Inside were three documents. The first: a notarized letter from Dad’s physician confirming he was of completely sound mind when he signed the deed, dated and witnessed by two attorneys. The second: a recording transcript of Brielle, six months earlier, telling Dad on speakerphone, “Just die already so I can sell the dump.” Dad had recorded it. Legally, in a one-party-consent state. The third was the kicker — a clause Dad had quietly added to his will. If Brielle ever attempted to contest the bakery’s ownership or sell to a developer, her entire cash inheritance — three hundred and twelve thousand dollars — would transfer directly to me and to a scholarship fund for the bakery’s employees’ kids. She’d already triggered it the moment she called the Whitlock Group. Mr. Pettit started clapping first. Then Rosa from the dish pit. Then every single customer in line. Brielle grabbed the folder, mascara running, and stumbled toward the door. She paused, voice cracking. “Maren, please —” I picked up the cinnamon braid, still warm, and set it gently in a paper bag. “For the road,” I said. “Dad always said nobody should leave this bakery empty-handed.” The bell above the door chimed as she disappeared down Cedar Street. I tied my apron tighter, turned to the next customer, and smiled. “What can I get started for you?”
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