9:15.
Malcolm and Terrence walked into the diner.
A bell above the door jingled.
Heads turned for just a second, then returned to plates.
Curious glances.
Not hostile.
Not yet.
Brenda Carile, the owner, came over with two menus.
She was in her 60s, with silver hair pulled back from her face.
She smiled, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sit anywhere you like."
They chose a corner booth with cracked red vinyl and a window facing Main Street.
Malcolm could see the entire room from there.
Another habit.
The diner smelled like bacon grease and overcooked coffee.
A jukebox hummed low in the corner.
Some old country song Malcolm didn't recognize.
Plates clattered in the kitchen.
A waitress poured coffee at the counter.
Ceramic mugs knocked together like little bells.
They ordered pancakes.
Eggs.
Coffee.
Normal.
Easy.
Terrence pulled out his phone and pretended to scroll.
In reality, he was checking the concealed recorder inside his jacket.
Green light.
Recording.
Malcolm sipped his coffee and watched the door.
Near the register, a waitress leaned toward Brenda and whispered something.
Malcolm caught only part of it.
"Hutchkins usually comes in around 9:30."
Brenda's whole body tensed.
She wiped the same spot on the counter twice.
Then a third time.
That told Malcolm something.
This man had weight in this town.
The kind of weight that made people clean surfaces that were already spotless.
Terrence saw it, too.
He set down his phone.
"He's coming."
Malcolm nodded.
Didn't look up.
Just stirred his coffee and waited.
The bell above the door jingled.
Dale Hutchkins walked in.
Full uniform.
Ridgedale County Sheriff's Office patch on his shoulder.
Gun belt sitting heavy around his waist.
Mirrored sunglasses pushed up on his buzz-cut head even though the sun wasn't in his eyes.
Behind him walked a younger deputy in his mid-20s.
Cody Lacader.
Thin.
Fresh haircut.
A uniform that looked like it still held creases from the package.
The diner went half silent.
Forks slowed.
Conversations dropped to murmurs.
Brenda straightened behind the register like a student when the principal walks into class.
Hutchkins didn't head toward the counter.
Didn't wave at the regulars.
His eyes swept the room in one practiced motion and locked onto the corner booth where Malcolm and Terrence sat.
He walked straight toward them.
His boots struck the tile with that deliberate law-enforcement rhythm.
Slow.
Heavy.
The kind of walk that communicated he had all the time in the world and everyone else didn't.
He stopped at the edge of their booth.
Didn't sit.
Didn't lean.
Just stood looking down at them like they were something that needed to be inspected.
"Morning."
His voice was casual.
Almost friendly.
"You boys passing through?"
Malcolm set down his coffee cup.
Looked up.
Met his eyes.
"Just having breakfast."
"Uh-huh."
Hutchkins tilted his head.
"Where are you staying?"
Terrence glanced at Malcolm, then back at Hutchkins.
"Is there a reason you're asking?"