Mansion -alibi- ❲720p❳

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

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.

She looked up at the chandelier again. It was electric. No candles. Mansion -Alibi-

"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 staff is you and Silas, tonight. The household was given the night off. Convenient." Mara crouched down, peering at a faint smear on the marble floor near the newel post. Not blood. Wax. Beeswax from a candle. "Tell me again," Mara said, not turning around

Elara looked at Silas. Silas looked at the floor. The chandelier’s crystals tinkled once, softly, as if laughing.

"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?" She looked up at the chandelier again

"You went to him. You argued. He threatened to cut you off. You pushed, or he fell. Then you ran back to the east wing, lit a candle to see your own terror, and called Silas. Your lover. Your co-conspirator. He arrived not at nine, but at ten. After the murder. And the two of you spent an hour crafting the perfect, useless alibi."

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.

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."

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.