The rain fell like shattered glass upon the cobbled streets of Blackthorn Hollow at exactly ten past midnight. Detective Eleanor Vance pulled her trench coat tight, the wind whispering secrets through the skeletal trees lining the manor’s drive. A single light burned in the upstairs window of the old Grayson estate, flickering as though someone had just left. She counted seventeen footsteps from the gate to the porch, each one muffled by the wet, decaying leaves underfoot. The front door creaked open before she could knock, revealing a butler with eyes wide and a silver tray trembling in his hands. “Master Grayson,” he stammered, “lies where he fell, sir, though I swear I heard only silence until now.” Blood pooled beneath the body, dark and thick, spreading slowly across the Persian rug like an inkblot confession. A pocket watch lay smashed on the floor, hands frozen at ten minutes past ten, though the clock read nearly midnight. No weapon was visible, but the wound on his temple suggested blunt force, precise, delivered by someone he had trusted. A photograph facedown near the fireplace showed the edge of a woman’s face, smudged with what might have been tears or dirt. The fire crackled, casting long shadows that danced like guilty figures fleeing across the bookshelves lined with leather-bound alibis. Outside, a dog barked once, sharply, then fell silent, as if warned not to speak of what it had seen. Eleanor knelt beside the corpse, noticing the faint scent of lavender beneath the iron tang of spilled blood on the air. She pulled a pair of gloves from her coat, snapped them on, and whispered, “Someone didn’t want this night to end quietly.” The butler shifted behind her, his reflection fractured in a mirror cracked down the center, just like the victim’s skull. A clock chimed eleven, though all others in the room remained still, their faces dark, as if time itself were lying.