Page 19 of Bear and Order

The woman who filed the complaint lives on the eastern edge of town in a neat little house with a well-maintained garden and blue shutters. Nothing unusual. Brock knocks, and I immediately move forward. He catches the back of my jacket and pulls me firmly backward.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

"Investigating."

"I'm helping."

"No."

I frown. "You literally just agreed."

"I agreed to let you come," he says flatly. "That isn't the same thing."

I attempt to speak, and he points at me. "Be quiet."

I actually have the audacity to stare back. "You're enjoying this."

The door opens before the argument can continue. A woman in her sixties appears, her gaze moving between us. Recognition flashes immediately.

"Inspector."

Brock offers a polite nod. "Mrs. Collins." He gestures briefly toward me. "We'd like to discuss the complaint you filed against Sweetbell Bakery."

Mrs. Collins hesitates, her expression shifting when she glances my way — not hostile, just awkward. Interesting. She steps aside. "Come in."

The living room smells faintly of lavender. Family photographs line the walls, everything perfectly ordinary. Brock waits until we're all seated, then opens a folder.

"Could you explain your complaint?"

"The bread tasted wrong," Mrs. Collins says. "The flour was sour."

"How do you know that?" Brock asks.

"The bread had a strange taste. My husband agreed."

Brock makes a note. "Do you still have the bread?"

The question clearly surprises her, and before he can continue, I speak. "Could we see it?"

Both of them look at me. Brock's expression practically screams I told you to stay quiet. I ignore him, professionally.

Mrs. Collins shakes her head. "We threw it away."

Of course. Evidence always disappears. Brock writes another note, then asks if she has anything from the delivery. She pauses, rises, and returns a few moments later carrying a small stack of papers — receipts, invoices, delivery confirmations. Brock studies them carefully before passing them to me, probably expecting a cursory glance.

Instead, I freeze.

I look again. The timestamp catches my attention, and my pulse quickens.

"What's wrong?" Brock asks.

I point to the receipt. "This delivery time." I tap the printed figure. "The transport company says this order arrived at four twenty."

Mrs. Collins nods. "Yes."

"It didn't." I look up at Brock. "I received a customer delivery notification from my ordering system. A few minutes past two, the bread she received wasn’t from my bakery,."

His attention sharpens. "You're certain?"