Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAE5T2V9K21EEEAA5QBVVF

Rain glazed the cobblestones outside Harrowgate Station as Detective Mara Quinn stepped from the train, collar already dripping with rainwater. She expected another petty theft in the sleepy town, not the uniformed constable sprinting toward her, eyes wild with panic. Breathless, he blurted that the vicar was dead inside the rectory, locked study door splintered from repeated blows last night. Mara followed him through twisting lanes, noting curtains twitching back, residents counting sirens like others might count falling stars tonight. At Saint Bartholomews gate, rainwater pooled crimson along the gravel path, thin rivulets escaping beneath the heavy oak door inside. Inside, candles guttered in the draughty nave, shadows climbing cracked stone walls like penitents ascending toward some absent salvation above. The constable pushed open the study, revealing incense haze, overturned chair, and the vicar sprawled across Persian carpet, throat ruined. Books lay scattered like startled birds, one massive Bible open beside him, its pages soaked dark where his blood gathered. Mara knelt carefully, inhaling copper and incense, her gloved fingers hovering above wounds carved with almost surgical precision and deliberation. Whoever killed Reverend Hale, she thought, understood both scripture and anatomy, and wanted their message read like a sermon aloud.