The night air in Dynamic Estate had a cold bite to it, though the mansion itself was warm and still. I sat on the edge of my bed for what felt like hours, staring blankly at the wall, my thoughts spiraling. The events of the past days had wrapped themselves around me like a choking fog, Damien's arrest, the party, the whispers, the stolen phones, the dead bodies. My chest felt tight, my heart heavy with the suffocating weight of suspicion.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to move. If I stayed immobilized by fear, I'd lose the one thing that mattered most, the truth. And Damien.
I spread out the board I had prepared the night before, my handwriting precise yet jagged with tension. Names of everyone at the party stared back at me: The Alexanders… The Exilvias… and so many other faces that don't seem friendly or familiar, "they are not welcoming" I murmur, none of them showed my husband and I care or attention, everyone of them is a suspect, I said to myself. I traced each name with a pen, circling them, connecting lines where I sensed the slightest hint of connection. Each person represented a mystery, a potential lead, a possible threat. My mind felt like a chessboard, every move calculated, every gaze scrutinized.
Tomorrow, I thought, I'll start with the women. The women in this estate were the gossips, the quiet watchers, the ones who knew the undercurrent of things before anyone else. If anyone had information, it would be them.
The following morning, I dressed quietly, selecting muted colors that wouldn't draw attention. My heart thudded with restrained anticipation as I stepped into the estate's shopping complex. Women paused mid-conversation as I walked past, their eyes lingering longer than necessary, whispers floating on the air. I caught fragments: "The wife of the murderer… did you hear what he did?" "They shouldn't even be here…"
I smiled faintly, keeping my head down. I had learned quickly that confrontation was useless; the key was observation. Listen, watch, wait. I moved through the aisles, noting who glanced at me nervously, who spoke too loudly, who seemed eager for me to react. Nothing. No concrete leads. Just gossip, speculation, and the cold gaze of scrutiny.
Next, the salon. The space smelled of essential oils and perfume, soft music playing in the background, but tension sat in the corners like a living thing. The women here were the same, chatter laced with judgment, gossip coated in malice. I stayed, sat quietly, nodded when spoken to, smiled faintly when necessary. They wanted me to falter, to snap, to become the rage-filled wife of a supposed killer. But I held still. I didn't react. They weren't aware that my mind was already ten steps ahead, mapping connections, noting who whispered what.
Nothing tangible came from there either.
I left and headed to the Alexanders. My heart lifted slightly, they were known to be accommodating, warm. Perhaps here I could glean something useful, perhaps even build trust. I rang the doorbell, and Mrs. Alexander appeared, phone pressed to her ear, a polite smile painted carefully across her face. "Just sit in the sitting room," she said. "I'll be right with you."
I sank into the plush sofa, the subtle warmth of the room a balm to my frayed nerves. Soon, Mrs. Alexander returned, placing her phone aside. The conversation began cautiously, small talk, polite inquiries. Then I told her about my art, my passion for design. Her eyes lit up. "You must draw my family," she said, genuinely. "We would love to have you capture us. Send a request, and we'll make it happen."
For a moment, the weight on my chest lifted. Genuine warmth. I nodded, smiling faintly, and left the house with a sense of cautious optimism.
Barbara Exilvia awaited me at her door next. The moment she saw me, her expression twisted into disdain. "We don't welcome murderers here," she spat, voice sharp as a whip. I froze, then the anger inside me surged. "Maybe you people are strange," I said, my voice shaking with the mixture of fear and fury. "You see a man at a party and immediately label him a murderer? What about the others? Everyone else was there! I have a list, Barbara, and I will find out who really did this. You think your silence hides anything?"
Barbara's eyes widened. I could see the tremor in her hands. She slammed the door and fled, leaving the echo of her fear behind. I exhaled, the first shiver of vindication mingling with unease. Something about her reaction confirmed my suspicion, she knew more than she was saying.
I returned home, heart hammering, mind racing. My phone buzzed, the spa had confirmed my session. Maybe, just maybe, I could overhear something.
The spa was dimly lit, scented with lavender and sandalwood, the soft murmur of water in the background. As I sat under a warm lamp, I caught snippets of conversation behind a curtain. Two women, speaking in hushed tones. "Susan… she's harsh. Since she lost her girls, she's impossible… doesn't mingle… lonely…"
My pulse quickened. Susan? The woman who had greeted me with warmth and charm? These words contradicted everything I had seen, felt, believed. And yet, their conversation lingered in my mind, whispering doubt.
"…The Alexanders… they have four children, but no one ever sees them," one said.
"How do you know it's four?" asked the other.
"My cousin's friend works as a maid there. She serves them. That's how I know," the first replied, voice a little hushed, as if even speaking it aloud was dangerous.
I stiffened, letting the words sink in. Four children. I had never seen them before. In fact, I didn't know how they looked, or if their smiles were real or rehearsed. It wasn't alarming yet, just… curious. I tucked the information into my mind, a small puzzle piece that might one day fit somewhere.
"So why don't they show their children in public?" one of the women asked.
"Probably because they're being cautious," the other replied. "With all the strange things happening in this estate, it makes sense that they'd want to keep their children out of sight."
I found myself quietly convinced by their explanation, a small thread of understanding in the tangled web of the estate's secrets.
The following day, a message from Mrs. Alexander arrived, bright and polite: "Looking forward to having you over tomorrow for the family portrait. We'll be ready!"
My chest lifted slightly at the invitation. Tomorrow, I would finally meet the Alexanders properly. Perhaps I could blend in, earn trust, and maybe even glimpse a hint of the secrets held behind those walls.
The morning arrived, crisp and quiet. I approached their home, the elegance of the estate's architecture reflecting the wealth and care within. When the door opened, everyone stood, smiling politely. Polished, well-dressed, and welcoming, but something in their smiles felt slightly off. Too rehearsed. Too… calculated. I noted it quietly, filing it away while I set up my easel and paints.
Then, the children appeared. Three boys. My pulse faltered slightly. I remembered the spa conversation, four children. Only three now. My stomach churned. One was missing. My eyes darted to the doorway, half-expecting the fourth to emerge, but it remained empty.
I forced myself to focus. The smiles were cringy, polite but uninviting. I ignored the subtle unease crawling through me, keeping my hands busy with the sketches and the paints. Asking about the missing child would draw attention, might reveal what I had overheard at the spa. For now, I swallowed my questions, locked them in the corner of my mind, and concentrated on the task.
But even as I painted, my mind couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. One child missing, the estate whispering, the secretive Alexanders… this was only the beginning. Something wasn't right. And I would find out what.