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Then came hurried footsteps. A maid burst through the grand doors, breathless, her apron streaked with something dark. “Sir — Mr. Lay—” she cried, eyes wide with terror. “Someone's dead, inside - ”

Mr. Lay’s chest tightened. Without a word, he stepped down from the balcony, weaving through startled guests, his mind racing faster than his feet. Behind him, Amelia’s voice called faintly, “Dad?” but he couldn’t stop.

He entered the villa, the air inside strangely still, save for hurried footsteps and hushed voices down the east corridor. The maid led him upstairs, trembling as she pointed toward a room at the end of the hall.

“It’s… it’s Thomas, sir,” she whispered.

Mr. Lay pushed open the door.

And there he saw it.

Thomas McCall, the janitor who had worked at Evermoon for over fifteen years, lay motionless on his bed. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the sheets and dripping onto the floor. His neck bore dark, vicious bruises — clear marks of strangulation. And his chest and abdomen were riddled with stab wounds, deep and jagged.

For a long moment, Mr. Lay stood frozen, unable to speak, the image burned into his mind. Then, gathering himself, he turned sharply to the maid. “Call the police,” he ordered hoarsely. “Now.”

By the time the authorities arrived, the villa had fallen into an uneasy silence. Guests whispered in clusters outside; Amelia’s wedding gown glimmered in the fading light as she stood by the garden steps, watching with wide, confused eyes.

The investigation moved swiftly. Thomas’s time of death was estimated between 11:30 a.m. and 1 p.m. His room was thoroughly searched for evidence, and it didn’t take long for suspicion to fall on Mark Evans—another janitor at Evermoon and Thomas’s closest friend. Mark’s fingerprints were found all over Thomas’s room, and in Mark’s own quarters, police discovered a stash of cash hidden in a drawer—money faintly stained with Thomas’s blood.