Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPN2FQ1A4J3T3AG625ANGE

Rain hammered the windows of Blackthorn House like impatient fists. Inside, the grandfather clock struck three with unusual, hollow reluctance. Detective Inspector Marlowe removed her coat and studied the room. Eleven guests sat frozen around a table set for twelve. The empty chair belonged to Sir Edmund Blackthorn, now deceased. His body lay upstairs, discovered barely forty minutes before midnight. Nobody had left the house since the storm began at dusk. Marlowe counted the faces, memorizing each nervous tic and glance. "Somebody here killed him," she said, quietly folding her gloves. The fire spat once, then settled into a guilty silence. Mrs. Hensley, the housekeeper, dropped a teacup onto the floor. Its shatter sounded impossibly loud against the drumming of rain. Marlowe smiled without warmth and pulled out the twelfth chair. "Let us begin," she murmured, "with where everyone was standing."