The man stood in the shadows of Maple Street Bank, his breath hitching in shallow gasps as he adjusted the cheap nylon mask stretched over his face. Jack "Lucky" Larson wasn't known for subtlety, but that was the thrill, wasn't it? The dingy mask, the worn duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and the short-barreled revolver in his grip all gave him a ghostly air as he pushed through the bank's wooden door, letting it creak on its hinges. In a town like Belwick Hollow, a man like him was the last thing people expected to see on a crisp October morning.

The bank lobby was empty, the teller—an elderly woman with silver hair and thin, skeletal hands—peered over the counter at him with little more than curiosity. Jack's blood surged. Most tellers screamed or trembled at the sight of a gun, but she just stood there, eyes glittering like a fox sizing up its prey.

"Hands in the air, lady," Jack barked, thumping his bag on the counter. "All the money you got. Don’t make a scene."

The old woman smiled, her wrinkled lips parting in what looked like amusement.

"Oh, you'll get what you're due," she whispered,...