I assumed it had slunk off on its own, lying in wait like a lion until it was needed again. I made a quick stop before the supermarket, saw the oak doors were locked and read the plaque installed in the masonry. With any luck, it would be open when I was done with the shopping. Shopping. It seemed impossible to be doing something so mundane when I had so much blood on my hands. Mass murderers aren’t supposed to casually head to the store for milk and Cheerios. The Hannaford parking lot was almost empty. This time of day, it should have been at least half full. This was when the retirees came out to shop, and there were plenty of them in town to fill the aisles. I used to tell Candy shopping on a weekday morning was like being cast as an extra in The Walking Dead. Except the zombies in the show moved faster. But this was no ordinary day. I’d passed several car accidents on my way to the store, no signs of drivers anywhere.
