Chapter 3: The First Death

The scream tore through Wintercroft Hall, sharp and full of terror.

Elliot froze in the doorway, his fingers tightening around the brass candlestick. For a moment, the storm outside seemed to quiet, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Then the sound of frantic footsteps echoed down the hallway.

He turned to see the auburn-haired woman from earlier—Emma, if he remembered her name right—running toward him. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with panic.

“Someone’s dead,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “In the stairwell. There’s… there’s blood everywhere.”

Elliot didn’t wait for more. He followed her down the hall, the cold air of the mansion biting at his skin. When they reached the grand staircase, the rest of the group had already gathered, standing in stunned silence.

At the base of the staircase, sprawled awkwardly across the marble floor, was the body of the impatient man in the tailored coat. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, and a dark pool of blood spread out beneath him.

Elliot felt his stomach churn.

“What happened?” he asked, stepping forward.

“No one knows,” said a man in his thirties with glasses, his voice tight. “We heard a crash, and then—” He gestured helplessly at the body.

“Do you think he fell?” Emma asked, her voice trembling.

“From that height?” the man with the glasses replied. “I don’t know.”

Elliot’s eyes traveled upward, tracing the curve of the staircase. The bannister was splintered near the top, as if something—or someone—had hit it hard.

He knelt by the body, ignoring the others’ murmurs of protest. Up close, he could see the victim’s face, frozen in a grimace of shock and pain. But it wasn’t the fall that had killed him.

It was the gash across his throat.

Elliot stood abruptly, his mind racing. “This wasn’t an accident.”

“What are you saying?” Emma asked.

“I’m saying someone killed him.”

The room erupted into chaos.

“Are you serious?” demanded the man with glasses. “Who the hell would—”

“You don’t think one of us did this?” Emma interrupted, her voice rising.

Elliot stayed silent, his mind replaying the note he’d found outside his door. Don’t trust the butler.

The butler. Where was he?

“Where’s Henry?” Elliot asked, cutting through the noise.

The group turned to look at him.

“The butler?” asked a tall woman with sharp features and an icy demeanor. She crossed her arms. “Why would he—”

“Where is he?” Elliot pressed.

No one answered.

They found Henry in the kitchen, his expression as calm and detached as ever. He was wiping his hands with a cloth, his movements methodical.

“There’s been an accident,” Elliot said, stepping into the room.

Henry looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “An accident?”

“The man in the suit,” Elliot continued. “He’s dead. At the base of the stairs.”

Henry froze for just a fraction of a second. Then he folded the cloth and placed it neatly on the counter. “That is most unfortunate,” he said, his voice neutral.

“That’s all you have to say?” Elliot asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what else to say, Mr. Dorne,” Henry replied, meeting his gaze. “I was in here preparing for the evening.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“The storm is quite loud,” Henry said smoothly. “It would be easy to miss such a commotion.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes. Something about Henry’s composure felt wrong. Too controlled. Too… practiced.

Before Elliot could press further, Emma stepped forward. “We need to call the police,” she said.

Henry shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss O’Connell. The storm has taken out the phone lines, and the radios are unreliable in this weather.”

Emma let out a frustrated noise. “So what, we just wait here with a killer?”

“We don’t know that someone killed him,” Henry said.

“Yes, we do,” Elliot said, his voice cold.

Henry’s gaze flicked toward him, but he said nothing.

That night, the tension in the mansion was unbearable.

The remaining guests gathered in the sitting room, speaking in hushed tones. Everyone seemed to be watching each other, suspicion etched into their faces.

Elliot sat apart from the group, his thoughts racing. The note, the staged calm of the butler, the way Vivienne had spoken about the past refusing to stay buried—it all felt connected, though he couldn’t yet see how.

As the storm raged outside, he found himself staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. He thought of his brother, of the unanswered questions that had haunted him for years. He thought of the note Vivienne had given him. The weight of what you didn’t see will destroy you.

What hadn’t he seen?

Hours later, as the group prepared to retire for the night, Elliot lingered in the hallway outside his room. Something about the evening—the death, the notes, the storm—it gnawed at him, refusing to let go.

As he turned to enter his room, he noticed something on the floor by the baseboard. Another note.

He picked it up and unfolded it, his heart pounding.

This is only the beginning.

Elliot looked up sharply, his breath catching. A figure stood at the end of the hallway, just visible in the dim light.

Before he could call out, the figure turned and disappeared into the shadows.