"About the documents?"
"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."
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.
The rain hammered the windows like a fist demanding entry. Mansion -Alibi-
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."
Silas opened his mouth. Elara spoke first, her voice a razor wrapped in silk. "He was with me. He was. We were together the entire time."
"The mansion keeps no secrets," Mara said, pulling out her handcuffs. "It just waits for someone smart enough to listen." "About the documents
"Reading," Mara repeated, finally turning. Her eyes swept past Elara to the tall, silent figure by the fireplace. Silas Crane, the family’s lawyer. He held a snifter of brandy he hadn't touched. "And you, Mr. Crane? You were with her?"
Elara’s composure flickered—a single, hairline crack. "We had water brought up. The staff…"
"Elara," Mara said, softer now. "The east wing is twenty rooms. Maids' quarters, a ballroom, a billiards room. You're telling me that for three hours, neither of you left that wing? No calls? No bathroom break? No glass of water from the kitchen?" Except the east wing had no generator backup
Mara filed that away. She walked to the base of the staircase, noting the single, scuffed shoe print on the third step. The victim had been pushed. Or he'd fallen backward during a struggle. The coroner would tell her which, but motive was already whispering in her ear.
Elara looked at Silas. Silas looked at the floor. The chandelier’s crystals tinkled once, softly, as if laughing.
"Mansion's old," Mara murmured, almost to herself. "The east wing still has gas sconces, doesn't it? And the west wing—the study, the master bedroom—updated in the nineties. But the power went out tonight at eight forty-five. The whole block. Generator kicks in only for the west wing, the security system, and the kitchen."
"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?"