Mansion -alibi- Apr 2026

The rain didn’t so much fall as lean , sliding in slick, grey sheets down the limestone facade of Blackwood Manor. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old cedar and newer lies.

"Mansion's old," Mara murmured, almost to herself. "The east wing still has gas sconces, doesn't it? And the west wing—the study, the master bedroom—updated in the nineties. But the power went out tonight at eight forty-five. The whole block. Generator kicks in only for the west wing, the security system, and the kitchen."

"Reading," Mara repeated, finally turning. Her eyes swept past Elara to the tall, silent figure by the fireplace. Silas Crane, the family’s lawyer. He held a snifter of brandy he hadn't touched. "And you, Mr. Crane? You were with her?" Mansion -Alibi-

"You went to him. You argued. He threatened to cut you off. You pushed, or he fell. Then you ran back to the east wing, lit a candle to see your own terror, and called Silas. Your lover. Your co-conspirator. He arrived not at nine, but at ten. After the murder. And the two of you spent an hour crafting the perfect, useless alibi."

"Naturally." A thin smile. "He didn't care for the amendments favoring the charitable trust. He preferred his mistresses to have cash, not causes." The rain didn’t so much fall as lean

Elara looked at Silas. Silas looked at the floor. The chandelier’s crystals tinkled once, softly, as if laughing.

Elara’s composure flickered—a single, hairline crack. "We had water brought up. The staff…" "The east wing still has gas sconces, doesn't it

She pointed to the smear on the floor.

Mara filed that away. She walked to the base of the staircase, noting the single, scuffed shoe print on the third step. The victim had been pushed. Or he'd fallen backward during a struggle. The coroner would tell her which, but motive was already whispering in her ear.