Mansion -alibi- Now

Elara’s composure flickered—a single, hairline crack. "We had water brought up. The staff…"

"Elara," Mara said, softer now. "The east wing is twenty rooms. Maids' quarters, a ballroom, a billiards room. You're telling me that for three hours, neither of you left that wing? No calls? No bathroom break? No glass of water from the kitchen?"

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."

"The mansion keeps no secrets," Mara said, pulling out her handcuffs. "It just waits for someone smart enough to listen." Mansion -Alibi-

"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?"

"Naturally." A thin smile. "He didn't care for the amendments favoring the charitable trust. He preferred his mistresses to have cash, not causes." Elara’s composure flickered—a single, hairline crack

"The staff is you and Silas, tonight. The household was given the night off. Convenient." Mara crouched down, peering at a faint smear on the marble floor near the newel post. Not blood. Wax. Beeswax from a candle.

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.

She looked up at the chandelier again. It was electric. No candles. "The east wing is twenty rooms

Elara’s fingers tightened on the arm of the settee. Silas set down his brandy, untouched.

The rain hammered the windows like a fist demanding entry.

"But you, Silas," Mara said, turning to the lawyer. "You know the house. You installed the generator yourself last spring. You knew the east wing would be blind. So you sat in the dark with her. Or did you?"