Chapter One – Midnight at Goodman Mansion
Midnight drizzle blurred the streetlights as Detective Rachel Kennedy ducked under the yellow caution tape stretched across the Goodman mansion driveway. A low hum of chatter and camera flashes came from uniformed officers and reporters who'd set up camp beneath umbrellas. Rain dripped from her shoulders.
She advanced toward the grand oak doors, where Officer Gregory met her with a nod. "Body's in the foyer. No sign of forced entry, Ma'am."
Rachel's pulse quickened. She pushed through—entering a scene lit by pale, flickering light. A single chandelier hung overhead, its crystals stained by dust and neglect. A grand staircase loomed, its banisters engraved with decades-old family history.
At the base lay Laura Goodman—now still as marble. Her eyes were frozen wide in terror, mouth half-open as if gasping. A single playing card sat deliberately on her chest—the ace of spades.
Rachel crouched, her flashlight cutting through the gloom. The beam traced a muddy footprint beside Laura: size ten, heavy tread—too large for Laura. "A visitor… or a suspect," Rachel mused, voice low.
She straightened, scanning the room: crimson-patterned rug, draped velvet curtains, an unsettling stillness. Something about this froze her. It wasn't just a murder scene—it felt personal. Nimble confusion clung to her like the cold.
Officer Gregory cleared his throat. "There's something else." He handed over a small envelope, its seal broken. Inside: a photograph of a younger Laura, smiling. On the back: *"Tell no one."*
Rachel's eyebrows drew together. A threat. Or blackmail. Either way, trouble. Rachel had seen notes like that before—too many times. One had come with her sister's missing case file years ago.
She moved toward a figure standing at the foot of the stairs—the housekeeper: Marianne Cole. Older, stooped, eyes wary. "Mrs. Cole," Rachel began. "Do you live here?"
Marianne's voice trembled. "I… I work here. Since Laura's mother died." She glanced at the photo. "Laura's been… different lately."
"Different how?"
"She… she had been receiving letters. Secretive. Nervous…" Her stare snapped toward the staircase. "I heard voices last night… two people arguing upstairs. Laura's voice, strained."
Rachel noted the detail. Two voices. Argument. Upstairs. That footprint backed up the presence of another person.
A sharp clang echoed from the second floor—like something heavy dropped. Marianne flinched, clutching her shawl. "She put that photo in an envelope just before midnight. She—"
"Show me," Rachel whispered, voice firm. Marianne led her up the staircase—carpet soaked, footsteps echoing.
Just off the top landing, a side door stood ajar. Inside: The study, with shelves stripped of their usual neatness, had the look of a ransacked archive. Papers strewn, desk drawers yanked open. Family photos were turned face down. One drawer's handle dangled, broken. Rainwater trickled beneath the door. Rachel crouched, eyes flicking to muddy shoe prints leading deeper into the room, then up a narrow hallway.
Her gut tightened. *This isn't a random theft. They were looking for something.*
"You said two people were arguing?" Rachel said, stepping back into the hallway.
Marianne nodded. "I thought—No. I don't know."
A cold sense of dread coiled in Lana's chest. Why would someone kill Laura, leave a playing card, then scatter papers and send a warning photo? And what was in that room?
As she turned back, Lambert from forensics found her. "Detective—found traces of expensive perfume and cigar smoke."
Rachel inhaled quietly, eyes drifting to the dark corridor. "So: two people, upstairs, late. One of them returns wearing perfume and the other smelling like cigars. They fought over something." She paused, then looked back at Laura's covered body below. The playing card glinted under the chandelier's pale light. Ace of spades. Death's playing card—chosen. Meaningful. A message.
She exhaled. *Okay. This was deliberate.*
Questions now crowded in her mind: Who brought the card? What was Laura hiding? And who else was here at midnight?
She squared her shoulders and descended. *This case is anything but simple—and someone has already lured her into their game.*