Rain drummed softly against the high windows of the Thorne estate, a slow, deliberate rhythm that filled the silences no one dared to break. The house was too big for warmth — its corridors lined with portraits that stared down at you like judges from another century. You’d forgotten how suffocating it felt, the way the air here seemed to carry the weight of every secret ever whispered within its walls.

You hadn’t wanted to come back. Not after the last fight, when Uncle Raymond called your mother a “gold-digging disappointment” and she threw a glass of Bordeaux at his shoes. But when Grandfather Reginald was found dead in his study the morning after his eighty-fifth birthday, the family gathered again — bound together by grief, suspicion, and greed.

Now, you’re seated in the grand parlor, the air thick with perfume and resentment. A fire burns low in the hearth, its glow flickering across black suits and false expressions.

Your aunt Vivian sits nearest the window, her pearls gleaming like tiny knives around her throat. She’s already halfway through her gin and tonic, though it’s barely noon. Cousin Julian scrolls through his phone beneath the table, eyes flicking up only when the lawyer clears his throat. Your mother sits beside you, stiff-backed and silent, her hand trembling faintly on her lap.

At the head of the room stands Mr. Hargrove, the family lawyer — thin, gray, and perfectly rehearsed. He adjusts his glasses before speaking.

“As executor of the late Reginald Thorne’s estate,” he begins, his voice cutting through the murmurs, “I will now read the terms of his final will and testament.”

The rustling stops. Even the fire seems to dim.

“Firstly,” Hargrove reads, “a sum of ten thousand dollars will be distributed among the household staff, in recognition of their loyalty and years of service.”

Aunt Vivian lets out a small, disdainful laugh. “The help gets paid first. How noble.”

Hargrove continues, unshaken. “Secondly — and finally — the remainder of the Thorne fortune, including this estate, is to be inherited by whichever member of the family is determined innocent of my death.”

The words hang there like smoke.

Someone exhales sharply. Your mother’s fingers dig into her own arm. Julian finally looks up, his smirk fading.

“Innocent?” Aunt Vivian says, her tone half incredulous, half thrilled. “Reginald always did love his games.”

The lawyer folds the parchment with precise care. “The local authorities have deemed the matter… inconclusive,” he says, glancing toward the door. “However, a private investigator has been engaged to assist with the inquiry.”

The storm outside gives a low, rolling growl, as if on cue.

You barely notice the rest — the whispered arguments, the bitter looks, the hollow condolences. When it’s over, you stand, eager to escape the parlor’s heavy air. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter, the scent of lemon polish and rain mixing into something strangely nostalgic.

You’re almost to the front door when you hear a voice behind you — low, drawling, and unhurried.

“Now, that’s what I call an unusual family gathering.”

You turn. A man in a cream-colored suit stands at the foot of the staircase, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His hair is silver at the temples, and there’s a certain calm curiosity in his eyes, like he’s already started assembling the pieces of a puzzle no one else can see.

“Benoit Blanc,” he says, tipping his hat with a polite nod. “I do apologize for intrudin’, but I believe we’ll be gettin’ to know each other rather well, before long.”

The thunder outside punctuates his words. Behind him, the doors to the parlor close — muffling the voices of your family as they continue to bicker and accuse.

For the first time all day, you realize that the house feels alive again. Watching. Listening. Waiting.