The autumn rain drummed against Detective Sarah Chen's windshield as she pulled into the sprawling estate's circular driveway late Tuesday evening. Golden light spilled from the mansion's tall windows, creating an illusion of warmth that would soon be shattered by cold reality. She grabbed her leather notebook and stepped into the drizzle, her boots crunching on wet gravel as thunder rumbled overhead ominously. The ornate front door stood slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of marble floors and crystal chandeliers that sparkled like scattered diamonds within. Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore lay motionless in the grand library, her silk evening gown spread around her like crimson petals on mahogany. A leather-bound first edition of Shakespeare lay open beside her pale hand, its pages now stained with something far darker. Detective Chen knelt carefully, noting the absence of any obvious wounds while the grandfather clock chimed midnight with haunting, metallic precision. Three wine glasses sat on the coffee table, each containing different amounts of deep burgundy liquid that reflected the lamplight. The killer had been methodical, Chen realized, studying the scene with practiced eyes that missed nothing important or seemingly insignificant. Somewhere in this house of secrets and lies, a murderer waited, believing they had committed the perfect, undetectable crime tonight.