"Mansion's old," Mara murmured, almost to herself. "The east wing still has gas sconces, doesn't it? And the west wing—the study, the master bedroom—updated in the nineties. But the power went out tonight at eight forty-five. The whole block. Generator kicks in only for the west wing, the security system, and the kitchen."

From the velvet settee, Elara Blackwood—the widow, the heiress, the alibi—sighed. She was dressed in a cashmere sweater that cost more than Mara’s car, and her grief had the polished quality of a museum replica. "I've told you, Detective. I was in the east wing. All evening. Reading."

Elara’s face went the color of old bone.

Detective Mara Vance stood in the center of the grand foyer, her wet coat dripping onto a mosaic of cerulean and gold. Above her, a chandelier the size of a small car glittered with malevolent indifference. The body of Julian Blackwood lay at the foot of the grand staircase, his sightless eyes aimed at the front door he’d never reached.

Silas nodded, a small, precise motion. "From nine until… well, until the commotion. We were reviewing the revised trust documents. Mr. Blackwood was alive when I arrived. He was in his study, quite irate."

"Naturally." A thin smile. "He didn't care for the amendments favoring the charitable trust. He preferred his mistresses to have cash, not causes."

"So," Mara continued, standing. "At nine o'clock, you claim you were in the dark east wing. Reading. Except the east wing had no generator backup. It would have been pitch black. And you, Elara, are afraid of the dark. The maids mentioned it. You have nightlights in every outlet of the master suite."