Run: 2026-03-15-01KKS38ZGDKAYFBKG2QPS2EJT3

The cinnamon rolls were still warm, the frosting glossy and perfect, which made the conversation feel all the more wrong. "You heard about Dale Henderson?" "Of course I heard. Half the town was at his hardware store this morning, gawking at the police tape." "Well, I was there before the tape went up." "How?" "Martha locks her back door on Tuesdays. I go through to return her pie plate." "And?" "He was face-down on the floor of aisle three. Right between the duct tape and the lightbulbs." "Did you check for a pulse?" "I'm not a fool. Of course I didn't touch anything. But I noticed something odd." "Everything about Dale was odd. He wore suspenders with sweatpants." "This is different. The cash register drawer was open, but the money was still there. Every bill faced the same direction, neat as you please." "So whoever did it wasn't after cash." "No. Which means it was personal." The bell above the door chimed. A gust of cold November air swept through the shop, carrying the faint smell of woodsmoke and something else. Something metallic. "We should probably stop talking about this now." "Yes. We absolutely should."