Amelia Harlow
"Where were you at the time of Victor's death?"
The officer's voice cut through the silence of the drawing room. His eyes—cloudy with age yet sharp as a blade—fixed on me. He studied my face as though the truth lay hidden beneath my skin, waiting for him to peel it out.
"I was in my room when I heard footsteps," I said carefully, "and… a crying sound. Very faint."
The man leaned forward, his lined face unreadable. "What were you doing in your room?"
I swallowed. "Playing the piano."
He arched an eyebrow. "So you claim you heard dim voices, from a floor above you, while you were playing piano?"
"Yes," I said, forcing my voice not to waver.
He tilted his head, almost amused. "And how were you playing, Miss Amelia? How loud?"
"Loud enough to soothe me. Loud enough to fill the room."
"So," he said slowly, "while you drowned yourself in loud, soothing music, you also heard voices—low voices, faint, above you." His words rolled out like accusations disguised as questions.
"Yes," I repeated, meeting his gaze. My eyes did not leave his, though my chest tightened.
He studied me, one brow still raised, lips twitching as though he wanted to smirk. Then he changed direction without warning. "Miss Amelia… or is it Miss Harlow? Why keep Harlow? You are, after all, married to an Ashford."
The question struck me harder than it should have. "I was about to change my surname," I said quietly, "but my husband died two days after our wedding. There was no time. No reason."
Something shifted in his expression. "Ah yes. Nathan Ashford." His tone softened, mock sympathy dripping like oil. "A tragedy."
"Murder," I murmured under my breath.
He narrowed his eyes. "Have you said something, Miss Harlow?"
I forced a small shake of my head. "No."
The officer lingered a heartbeat longer, as if trying to peel more words out of me. But finally, he stepped back, scribbling in his worn notebook. Then he left, his heavy boots echoing down the hall.
The police swarmed through the mansion like shadows in uniform. They questioned every Ashford one by one. Helena trembling, Marcus stiff with anger, Cordelia with her mask of perfect composure cracking at the edges. Samuel silent, too silent. Lilith and Grace exchanging frightened glances as the officers examined Victor's ruined bedroom.
The room itself was stripped for evidence—blood samples, the pliers, the teeth scattered like cursed relics. The air reeked of iron and death. And yet, even as the police worked, I sensed it: the Ashfords were hiding something. Their silence was too rehearsed, their answers too polished.
Hours later, the officers gathered their evidence and left the mansion, carrying away boxes and whispers but leaving behind a suffocating dread.
We all ended up on the ground floor, clustered in the wide hallway. No one spoke. The silence was almost holy, as if the house itself demanded it. Each of us lost in our own private torment.
Samuel stood beside me, his hands buried deep in his pockets. The faint scent of cologne clung to him, sharp against the mustiness of the old house. Then—beep. A sudden, crisp sound broke the silence.
I glanced sideways. It was his phone. On the screen, in bold letters, an alarm flashed: Meetup.
His lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I have important work," he announced, his tone too casual for the moment. "I'll be home by evening."
Dominic, standing by the staircase like a watchman, grunted. "Fine," he said, his voice iron. "Don't be late."
One by one, the Ashfords dispersed, retreating into the darkness of their rooms. The hall emptied, footsteps fading into silence. Only Lilith lingered, her pale face tilted toward us.
"Tomorrow," she said suddenly, her voice fragile yet commanding, "everyone stay at home. A new detective is coming. They will investigate further."
Her words lingered in the air, heavy with something unspoken.
I nodded, though my stomach twisted. A new detective. Another stranger. Another set of eyes watching me, weighing me, questioning if I was truth or liar.
But as I turned away, something clawed at the back of my mind.
That alarm. Meetup.
With whom? And why, on the very day Victor was slaughtered, did Samuel need to leave?
I tried to dismiss it, but the thought clung like a burr.
Upstairs, in my room, the piano stood waiting. Its black surface reflected my pale face, my haunted eyes. My fingers hovered above the keys, but I couldn't play. Not tonight. Not when the house itself seemed to breathe, watching me from its dark corners.
The Ashford mansion was alive with secrets. And tonight, one of them had slipped through Samuel's glowing screen.
I couldn't shake the sense that whatever this "Meetup" was—it might drag us all deeper into the nightmare.