Day 1: Paperwork Never Lies. People Do.
Snow pressed quietly against the windows, muting the sounds of the house inside. Somewhere, a clock continued its steady rhythm, marking time as if nothing had changed. Whatever had happened here was already over — all that remained were the traces left behind.
The room had been disturbed, but not hurried. Objects were out of place by inches, not feet. The kind of disorder that suggested intention rather than panic. On the desk, half-hidden beneath a ledger, lay a single sheet of paper, creased as if it had been handled more than once.
You lift it, unfold it carefully, and read what it says.
Puzzle: Routines were kept immaculate, every hour accounted for.
Orders were followed, meetings arranged, secrets neatly filed.
X marks nothing on the calendar where the night went wrong.
Yet someone noticed what was missing before anyone noticed the body.
Loyal in presence, indispensable in practice.
Always close enough to hear everything, never close enough to be blamed.
No door in Merlewood Mansion stayed closed for long to her.
Everybody knows she kept the house running — but who was she really protecting?