"But you, Silas," Mara said, turning to the lawyer. "You know the house. You installed the generator yourself last spring. You knew the east wing would be blind. So you sat in the dark with her. Or did you?"

The rain hammered the windows like a fist demanding entry.

"So," Mara continued, standing. "At nine o'clock, you claim you were in the dark east wing. Reading. Except the east wing had no generator backup. It would have been pitch black. And you, Elara, are afraid of the dark. The maids mentioned it. You have nightlights in every outlet of the master suite."

Detective Mara Vance stood in the center of the grand foyer, her wet coat dripping onto a mosaic of cerulean and gold. Above her, a chandelier the size of a small car glittered with malevolent indifference. The body of Julian Blackwood lay at the foot of the grand staircase, his sightless eyes aimed at the front door he’d never reached.

The rain didn’t so much fall as lean , sliding in slick, grey sheets down the limestone facade of Blackwood Manor. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old cedar and newer lies.

"Tell me again," Mara said, not turning around.

Elara’s face went the color of old bone.

From the velvet settee, Elara Blackwood—the widow, the heiress, the alibi—sighed. She was dressed in a cashmere sweater that cost more than Mara’s car, and her grief had the polished quality of a museum replica. "I've told you, Detective. I was in the east wing. All evening. Reading."