Murder at the Mayors Mansion
Mayers Mansion rises from the cliffside like a mausoleum pretending to be a home.
You arrive just before nightfall, rain already streaking down the gargoyles that leer from the roofline. The iron gates close behind your car with a sound that settles unpleasantly in your chest. Victor Mayers insisted you come unarmed, unofficial, and discreet.
“You won’t be needed,” he said.
“And if you are,” he added, “I’d rather you already be here.”
Now, hours later, you sit at the long dining table beneath a chandelier older than most cities. Candlelight glints off crystal glasses. Conversations feel rehearsed. Forced.
You watch everyone.
Victor Mayers — stiff, defensive, his wealth worn like armor.
Elena Mayers — distant, brittle, eyes darting toward Thomas Hale whenever she thinks no one notices.
Thomas Hale — smiling too much, drinking too fast.
Lydia Crowe — elegant, observant, missing nothing.
Samuel Finch — the butler, silent, precise, unsettling in his stillness.
Thunder rolls.
Then— A scream tears through the mansion. High. Raw. Desperate.
It echoes once, twice, and then stops. Silence crashes down harder than the storm.
Samuel Finch moves first, rushing from the room and returning moments later, pale as marble.
“There’s been a murder,” he says.
You stand. “No one leaves,” you say calmly. “This house is sealed.”
The mansion seems to exhale.
You arrive just before nightfall, rain already streaking down the gargoyles that leer from the roofline. The iron gates close behind your car with a sound that settles unpleasantly in your chest. Victor Mayers insisted you come unarmed, unofficial, and discreet.
“You won’t be needed,” he said.
“And if you are,” he added, “I’d rather you already be here.”
Now, hours later, you sit at the long dining table beneath a chandelier older than most cities. Candlelight glints off crystal glasses. Conversations feel rehearsed. Forced.
You watch everyone.
Victor Mayers — stiff, defensive, his wealth worn like armor.
Elena Mayers — distant, brittle, eyes darting toward Thomas Hale whenever she thinks no one notices.
Thomas Hale — smiling too much, drinking too fast.
Lydia Crowe — elegant, observant, missing nothing.
Samuel Finch — the butler, silent, precise, unsettling in his stillness.
Thunder rolls.
Then— A scream tears through the mansion. High. Raw. Desperate.
It echoes once, twice, and then stops. Silence crashes down harder than the storm.
Samuel Finch moves first, rushing from the room and returning moments later, pale as marble.
“There’s been a murder,” he says.
You stand. “No one leaves,” you say calmly. “This house is sealed.”
The mansion seems to exhale.