Rain tapped softly on the library’s stained glass, a lullaby. Violet Sinclair entered, heels echoing somberly on polished oak floor. She paused, noticing the clock stopped at half past nine. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows everywhere. Detective Hamish Crane waited by the mantelpiece, gloves in hand. “Mrs. Sinclair, thank you for coming,” he said, voice grave. Violet’s eyes darted, finding red on her book’s spine. Crane nodded grimly, gesturing toward the velvet-draped armchair beside him. The silence between ticked with heavy tension, questions hanging unspoken. A thunderclap rattled windows as Violet whispered, “Is Gerald really dead?”