"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."
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.
"About the documents?"
She pointed to the smear on the floor.
Mara smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "I know. That's the problem. An alibi is a story two people tell. But a mansion ? A mansion is a thousand silent witnesses. The floorboards that creak. The doors that latch from one side only. The wax from a candle you carried because you were afraid of the dark, Elara—wax you stepped in on your way back from the west wing."
Silas nodded, a small, precise motion. "From nine until… well, until the commotion. We were reviewing the revised trust documents. Mr. Blackwood was alive when I arrived. He was in his study, quite irate."
Elara looked at Silas. Silas looked at the floor. The chandelier’s crystals tinkled once, softly, as if laughing. Mansion -Alibi-
She looked up at the chandelier again. It was electric. No candles.
Silas opened his mouth. Elara spoke first, her voice a razor wrapped in silk. "He was with me. He was. We were together the entire time."
"The mansion keeps no secrets," Mara said, pulling out her handcuffs. "It just waits for someone smart enough to listen." "You went to him
"Tell me again," Mara said, not turning around.
"So," Mara continued, standing. "At nine o'clock, you claim you were in the dark east wing. Reading. Except the east wing had no generator backup. It would have been pitch black. And you, Elara, are afraid of the dark. The maids mentioned it. You have nightlights in every outlet of the master suite."