The rain fell in silver sheets over the crumbling stone mansion nestled deep within the ancient forest’s shadowed edge. Inside, a grandfather clock struck midnight as a single candle flickered weakly against the oppressive darkness of the main hallway. Footsteps echoed—too light to be the butler’s, too steady to belong to the nervous housekeeper—moving swiftly toward the library door. A muffled gasp pierced the silence, followed by the sharp scent of almonds spreading slowly through the cold, damp air of the study. The body lay sprawled across the Persian rug, one hand clutching a torn letter, the other outstretched toward a shattered monocle. Blood pooled beneath the victim’s head, mixing with spilled brandy from an overturned glass beside an empty, unlabeled wine bottle. No one had heard the shot, though the window was open, its curtains flapping like ghostly wings in the storm-lashed night breeze. The family heirloom dagger was missing from the display case, its absence noted by the maid who entered with fresh firewood at dawn. Detective Mallory arrived at nine a.m., trench coat soaked, eyes scanning every guest with quiet, practiced suspicion hidden behind his thin smile. Each guest claimed innocence, yet all wore expressions strained by secrets too heavy to speak and fears too dark to name aloud.