Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPNBAYG3EEK53N278JX8M8

The rain had been falling on Whitmore Hall for three days, turning the gravel drive into a river of mud. Inspector Deborah Vance parked her car beneath the dripping yews and studied the house through her streaked, fogging windshield. Every window on the eastern wing blazed with light, though the hour had crawled well past two in the morning. A young constable met her at the door, his face the color of the wet stone beneath his boots. "He's in the library, ma'am," the boy said, and swallowed hard, unable to look directly at her steady gray eyes. Inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke, old paper, and something faintly metallic that she recognized before she saw anything. Lord Alistair Whitmore lay across his desk with a letter opener buried neatly between his fourth and fifth ribs. Seven people waited in the drawing room, each of them soaked to the skin, and each one telling a different story. None of them had left the estate that night, which meant the killer was still sitting on the velvet furniture. Vance removed her gloves, one finger at a time, and decided that the truth would arrive before the morning did.