Will looked like a kid waiting for the gallows, not a chat with a detective.

  He sat stiffly in the servants’ quarters, cap clutched in both hands, eyes darting anywhere but at Elena. The kind of nervous that wasn’t just fear of authority—but fear of saying the wrong thing.

  Elena didn’t press. Not yet.

  She took her time, leaning casually against the edge of a table, arms crossed, watching him the way a cat watches a mouse pretending to be invisible.

  “So,” she started, tone light, conversational, “how long have you worked for the Morcants, Will?”

  Will blinked, thrown off by the question. “Uh… two years, Miss. Since me uncle got me the post.”

  “Good position for a lad your age,” Elena noted, glancing around the modest room. “Better than the streets, I imagine.”

  Will nodded quickly. “Aye. I keep the horses, run errands. Don’t ask questions.”

  Elena smiled faintly at that. “Funny thing about not asking questions… it doesn’t stop you from noticing answers.”

  Will swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the worn fabric of his cap.

  Elena let silence hang for a moment, then continued, her voice still casual. “Walk me through your night, Will. From the start.”

  “N-Nothing unusual, Miss,” Will stammered. “Fed the horses… cleaned the tack… turned in early.”

  Lie. No stablehand “turned in early” on a night when his employer wound up dead.

  But Elena didn’t call him out. Not yet.

  She paced slowly, eyes scanning the room like she was thinking aloud. “Strange. Because I heard from Mrs. Harrow that you weren’t around when they needed someone to fetch the inspector this morning.”

  Will shifted uncomfortably. “I… I was out back… checking the fences.”

  Elena hummed, noncommittal, before glancing at Adrian—who stood silent, watchful.

  Her mind was already spinning—noticing the tension, the evasiveness, the way Will’s story felt too… safe.

  Too rehearsed.

  She stepped toward the window, looking out toward the distant tavern rooftops barely visible through the mist. The Blue Hart Tavern. Tobias’s alibi.

  That’s when it hit her—the gap in the story she hadn’t questioned before.

  Slowly, she turned back to Will, her tone shifting—still calm, but sharper now. Focused.

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  “You ever been to the Blue Hart, Will?”

  Will’s head jerked up, eyes wide. “I—I mean… sometimes, Miss. On days off…”

  Elena nodded thoughtfully, as if accepting that. But inside, the pieces were moving fast.

  She took a slow step closer. “Funny place, isn’t it? Lots of regulars. People know faces. Hard to keep to yourself there.”

  Will licked his lips, his foot tapping anxiously against the floorboards.

  Elena’s gaze locked onto him, her voice dropping just enough to make the air heavier. “You weren’t checking fences this morning, were you? You were coming back from town. From the tavern.”

  Will froze—caught between denial and confession.

  Elena pressed, her voice now a soft blade. “Who sent you there, Will?”

  Silence. His knuckles went white around his cap.

  Then—barely a whisper—”Mr. Greene… he asked me to cover for him…”

  Elena’s heart ticked faster, but her face stayed neutral. “How?”

  Will’s shoulders sagged like the weight of the lie had finally crushed him. “Told me to wear his cloak… sit in his place… act drunk so no one’d look close…” His voice cracked. “He paid me good, Miss. Said it was just business…”

  Elena exhaled slowly, feeling that familiar rush—not triumph, but the satisfaction of peeling back a layer of deception.

  She crouched slightly, meeting his panicked gaze. “Last question, Will. When you came back—did you hear anything?”

  Will hesitated, then nodded weakly. “Heard the gates… and… the sound of his cane. Just once. I swear, that’s all I know.”

  Elena stood, her mind already miles ahead. Tobias’s alibi was a house of cards—and now she had the wind.

  “Stay quiet, Will,” she said, her tone flat but not unkind. “You’ve done enough for Mr. Greene.”

  As she stepped outside with Adrian, the morning mist felt a little thinner—like the truth was finally starting to clear.

  “That was impressive,” Adrian murmured, falling into step beside her.

  Elena didn’t answer immediately. Her mind was already back in the study, replaying every detail.

  “I don’t like coincidences,” she said at last. “Vivienne’s lies. Tobias’s fake alibi. A too-clean crime scene.”

  She glanced at Adrian, a glint of determination sharpening her eyes.

  “We’re missing one piece. Let’s go find it.”

  The dead had a way of staying quiet, but their surroundings always whispered if you listened closely enough.

  Elena stepped back into Lord Morcant’s study, her boots sinking slightly into the thick rug that had been too carefully realigned after the murder. The scent of extinguished candles and old paper lingered—a room trying too hard to pretend it hadn’t hosted a crime.

  Adrian closed the door behind them, his footsteps light as ever. He stayed near the entrance, watchful but silent, while Elena let her eyes sweep across the scene.

  This wasn’t guesswork anymore. It was about confirming what instinct and experience already told her—that this wasn’t a single clean-cut crime.

  She moved slowly, retracing the killer’s steps—not Tobias’s steps, not yet—but anyone’s.

  Her gaze landed on the wine decanter and glass still positioned neatly on the desk, as if Lord Morcant might wake up and demand a refill.

  She crouched beside it, fingers gliding over the rim of the glass. A faint residue clung to the bottom—barely visible, but enough to catch the eye of someone trained to notice when things didn’t quite add up.

  She didn’t need a full lab to know what it was. The subtle, earthy scent gave it away—valerian root, maybe somnus leaf too. Classic sedatives.

  Elena straightened, lips pursed.

  “Adrian,” she called softly, not taking her eyes off the glass.

  “Yes, Miss Chen?” he answered, already by her side like he’d anticipated the summons.

  “How common is it for noble households to keep sleep aids in their private stock?”

  Adrian’s brow furrowed slightly in thought. “Not uncommon. Especially in strained marriages.”

  Elena let out a quiet hum—half amusement, half confirmation. Vivienne’s nervous glances, her vague answers about herbal teas… it all fit. But intent mattered.

  She turned her focus to the desk itself—papers shuffled, ink still fresh in places it shouldn’t be. Someone had rifled through documents after Morcant was already dead—or unconscious.

  Her fingers brushed over a sheet bearing faint impressions—like someone had pressed down too hard while writing on a sheet above it.

  A classic oversight.

  She angled the paper toward the light, catching hints of figures—numbers. Not love letters, not political secrets. Ledgers.

  Her banker instincts kicked in, reading the flow of digits even without context.

  “Financial adjustments,” she murmured. “Tobias wasn’t just covering his tracks—he was erasing them.”

  Adrian watched her closely, his expression as calm as ever. “You believe Lady Vivienne only intended to sedate her husband?”

  Elena didn’t answer immediately. She walked to the fireplace where the half-burned letter still sat in the ash—its perfume faint but familiar.

  “Vivienne was hiding something,” she said finally, voice thoughtful. “But not murder. She didn’t need her husband dead—just asleep long enough to avoid awkward questions about midnight escapades.”

  She faced Adrian fully now, her mind clicking through the timeline like a well-oiled machine.

  “Tobias, on the other hand… found opportunity dressed as coincidence.”

  Her gaze drifted back to the wine glass, then to the chair Morcant had slumped over. No signs of struggle. No panic. Just… efficiency.

  The perfect storm of secrets and ambition.

  But deductions alone wouldn’t bring Tobias down. She needed him to prove himself guilty—the way all overconfident men did when they thought they were smarter than everyone else.

  A slow smile curved her lips—sharp, knowing.

  “Time to give Mr. Greene a chance to show off,” she said, turning toward the door.

  Adrian followed, his expression unreadable—but Elena noticed the slight tilt of his head. Like he was… intrigued.

  “And if he doesn’t take the bait?” Adrian asked.

  Elena’s smile widened. “Oh, he will. Men like Tobias always do when they think they’ve already won.”