Chapter 3

There, the elderly Blackwood family matriarch was waiting for us.

Before following the inspector, I asked. "Inspector, do you think these two cases are connected?"

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me.

"Gray," he said. "A man who was found not guilty by reason of insanity two years ago for accidentally killing his wife has been found dead in a locked study. His death appears to be an execution carried out with extreme violence. If you still think these two events are unrelated, then you're not being careful enough."

"Then what do you think it is—"

I had intended to say "revenge" or "silencing," but I suddenly couldn't bring myself to finish.

In that instant, a white figure seemed to flicker slightly in the long mirror at the end of the hallway.

I whipped my head around to look, but the mirror reflected only the dim corridor, the chandelier, and my own pale face.

"What's wrong?" the inspector asked.

I hesitated for a moment, then shook my head. "Nothing."

He glanced at me and merely said, "Let's go. We'll hear what the deceased's mother has to say."

One thought kept gnawing at me.

*Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of this case isn't who killed Adrian Blackwood.

But someone did exact the blood debt owed from two years ago.*

——

In the living room——

The long-pile carpet was so soft it seemed to swallow voices.

The old lady, perhaps sixty, perched in a high-backed chair by the fireplace.

She wore a black silk dress, an obsidian brooch, and clutched a white handkerchief.

If not for the dark circles under her eyes, I might have thought she was only receiving an untimely visitor, not mourning a lost son.

The moment I stepped inside, the heavy air made it difficult to breathe, as if the room itself pressed against my chest.

She placed her hand on the armrest, steadying herself before rising slowly from her chair.

"Inspector," she said, nodding slightly to Inspector Ver, "please make this quick. I'm tired."

Her voice was steady, almost cold.

"I'll try to be brief, madam," the inspector replied. "But you should know it's far more serious than we could have thought."

"I understand," she said. "And that is precisely why I hope you'll find that madman quickly."

"Do you think the killer is a madman?"

"Isn't he?" she retorted, her gaze sweeping over our faces like a blade. "What kind of person could beat a grown man to that state?"

"Some could kill when they're in their right mind," the inspector said calmly.

Her expression shifted briefly.

A flicker of instinctive caution crossed her face.

She lowered herself back into the chair and methodically folded the handkerchief on her lap, her fingers trembling slightly.

"What do you want to ask?" she said.

"Was Adrian alone in his study after eleven o'clock last night?"

"Yes."

"No visitors?"

"No."

"Did any family members go in?"

"No."

"No servants delivering wine, messages, or a late-night snack?"

"No," she said.

"Who was the last person to see the deceased?" the inspector asked, his expression unchanged.

"Fitch," she said. "And myself."

"What time did you see him?"

"Around 10:45." She paused briefly. "I suggested he get some rest, but he refused."

"How was his mood at the time?"

"Just as usual."

"Had he been drinking?"

"He had two glasses of brandy."

"Did anyone argue with him?"

"No."

The inspector pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.

"Madam," he said, "I hope you understand that we are dealing with a locked-room murder. The door was locked from the inside, the key was inside the room, the windows were bolted shut, and your son—a strong, adult man—died from a sustained, violent attack at extremely close range. Under these circumstances, every detail matters."

"So?"

"So, I won't accept a hasty 'no.'" The inspector looked up at her. "Please think back carefully. After eleven o'clock last night, was there truly nothing out of the ordinary in this house?"

The fire crackled, casting a stark glow that bleached her face even paler.

She paused for a few seconds before speaking slowly, "Around midnight, I did hear a noise."

"What kind of noise?"

"It sounded like something heavy falling," she said, her tone even. "But it wasn't very loud. I thought he'd knocked over a chair while drunk. Adrian's been in a bad mood lately, drinking alone often, and I didn't want to provoke him further."

"Why has he been in a bad mood lately?" the inspector asked.

"His marriage negotiations weren't going well, and there have been some troubles with the family business," she said, her fingers tapping lightly on her handkerchief.

For two years, people kept digging up old issues, making a big deal of his late wife's affairs. He was under pressure.

"Who are they?"

"The newspapers, busybodies, and politicians looking to make a political point," she said coldly. "When a family suffers a tragedy, others seem to take pleasure in it."

"After Elena's death, did you ever publicly insist that Adrian suffered from serious mental health issues?" the inspector asked.

Silence fell in the living room.

The old lady's expression darkened.

"Inspector," she said, "my son just died, and yet you're asking me about that nightmare from two years ago. Isn't that a bit inappropriate?"

"Not at all," the inspector replied. "It is precisely because a death two years ago—one also involving extreme violence, yet hastily closed—that I must ask."

She stared at him, a hint of undisguised hostility flashing in her eyes.

"That was a family matter. And it's long been closed."

"Closed doesn't mean without suspicion," the inspector said.

She breathed deeply.

"If you've come here today to insult the mother of a dead son," she said, "I won't answer any more questions."

"I'm here to investigate," the inspector said, rising to his feet. "That includes your son's death, and it includes the death of Elena."

She looked up sharply, opening her mouth.

Before she could speak, the inspector said, "Gray, let's go."