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."

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

"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." Mansion -Alibi-

"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?"

"The mansion keeps no secrets," Mara said, pulling out her handcuffs. "It just waits for someone smart enough to listen." "Mansion's old," Mara murmured, almost to herself

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

"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. But the power went out tonight at eight forty-five

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."