The mansion funeral looks perfect from a distance.

The mahogany-paneled walls of the downstairs library absorbed the sound of the grandfather clock ticking heavily in the corner. Ethan paced the Persian rug, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the exposed grain where the rug ended. The fire in the hearth had died down to glowing embers, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rows of leather-bound first editions that Claire had spent years cataloging. This room had been her sanctuary, a place where she drank Earl Grey tea and edited manuscripts late into the night. Now, it felt entirely foreign, stripped of her warmth and smelling only of old paper and dust.

A soft knock sounded at the heavy double doors before they creaked open to reveal Eleanor. She carried a silver tray holding two crystal tumblers filled with amber whiskey. She did not offer one to Ethan, instead setting the tray on the edge of the mahogany desk with clinical precision.

"You’re exhausting yourself, Ethan," Eleanor said quietly, settling into the wingback chair that Claire had favored. "Grief is a heavy garment, but paranoia is a poison that will destroy what little is left of our family."

Ethan stopped pacing and turned to face his mother-in-law. In the dim light, the lines around her eyes seemed deeper, etched by decades of keeping family secrets buried beneath charitable donations and high-society galas. "It isn't paranoia, Eleanor. Julian is hiding something. I saw the way he looked at the front doors when the police called. He wasn't mourning; he was calculating."

"Julian is twenty-four years old and terrified," Eleanor retorted, her tone chillingly level. "He found his sister at the bottom of the grand staircase. He performed CPR until his ribs ached. He carried her weight in his arms when there was no pulse left to save."

"The police report listed the time of death around midnight," Ethan said, narrowing his eyes as he stepped closer to the desk. "I called Claire at eleven-thirty. She didn't answer her phone, but I heard music playing in the background. It wasn't our classical station. It was jazz. Claire hated jazz. Who was in this house with her, Eleanor?"

Eleanor took a slow sip of her whiskey, her gaze never wavering from Ethan’s face. "The staff leaves at seven on Tuesdays, Ethan. You know that as well as I do. If there was music, perhaps she was trying to calm her nerves. She had been under immense stress lately."