Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9VHNKQAP20WVR2H5QB86X

Rain hammered the cliffside village as the lighthouse beam jittered, slicing darkness while sirens approached the harbor road at midnight. Mara Ellison found the body behind the cannery, sprawled among nets, one shoe missing, eyes glassy beneath the flickering lamp. A playing card rested on his tongue, the queen of spades, blackened edges damp, daring anyone to understand the message. Detective Rowan Hale ducked under the tape, boots squeaking, eyes scanning fishermen huddled nearby, whispers looping like gulls overhead restlessly. "Lock the pier," he said, kneeling beside Mara, "and keep them talking; murder hates silence more than witnesses at night." Tidewater pawed at footprints leading nowhere, while the cannery clock chimed twelve twice, as if correcting time for a lie. Someone whispered the name Conrad Pike, salt baron, benefactor, bastard; the words snagged like hooks inside the fog and throats. Rowan smelled anise, unusual among tar and brine, recalling prison dice games, queen high determining debts paid in blood long-owed. Mara steadied herself, then pointed to his thumbnails, scraped raw, crescents packed with blue paint flecked like tidepool porcelain chips. The lighthouse blinked twice, surrendering darkness, and everyone looked smaller, as if the killer had already chosen another witness tonight.