Chapter Two

Detective Harris closed his notebook after finishing with August, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, Mr. Westwood. We'll talk more if necessary." He turned his focus to Aurora next, gesturing for her to sit at the far end of the dining room table.

Aurora moved with hesitant grace, her normally composed demeanor shattered. Her hands trembled as she sat, clutching a tissue that was already reduced to shreds. Her dark hair, which usually cascaded in perfect waves, was slightly disheveled, and her sharp green eyes-always so confident-now seemed glazed with fear and fatigue.

"Mrs. Westwood," Harris began, his tone measured and professional, "I know this is difficult, but I need to ask you some questions."

Aurora nodded stiffly, her lips pressed tightly together.

"Can you tell me about the events leading up to your husband's death tonight?"

Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to speak. "It was a normal dinner," she began, barely above a whisper. "Jonathan seemed... fine. He was talking about work, a deal he was closing." She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. "We were all talking. Laughing, even." Her voice cracked, and she looked down, her fingers twisting the tissue in her lap.

"Did anything seem out of the ordinary?" Harris asked gently. "Any unusual behavior, or anything your husband might have said that stood out to you?"

Aurora took a moment, her brows furrowing. "No," she said finally, shaking her head. "He was his usual self."

"Do you recall what he ate or drank tonight?"

Aurora's breath hitched. She glanced briefly at the bloodied table, as if the sight of it burned. "He ate the lamb," she said, her voice faltering. "He drank wine. I poured it myself."

Harris's pen stopped momentarily on his notebook, his sharp eyes lifting to meet hers. "Did he drink from the same bottle as everyone else?"

Aurora hesitated, her fingers clenching the tissue tighter. "Yes. I think so."

"You think so?" Harris pressed, though his tone remained calm.

Aurora blinked, as if trying to piece the memory together. "I... I'm sure. Yes. It was the same bottle."

Harris nodded, making a note. "Did your husband have any medical conditions or allergies we should be aware of?"

"No," Aurora said quickly. "He was perfectly healthy."

"What about enemies, Mrs. Westwood? Was there anyone who might have wished him harm?"

Aurora's head snapped up at the question, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Enemies?" she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of indignation. "Jonathan was a powerful man, Detective. He had rivals, yes, but that's the nature of business. Nothing that would... lead to this."

Harris didn't break eye contact, his pen hovering above the page. "Rivals," he echoed. "Anyone specific come to mind?"

Aurora's jaw tightened. "No," she said curtly.

The air between them grew heavier as Harris studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Westwood. That will be all for now."

Aurora stood on unsteady legs, clutching the back of the chair for support before retreating to a corner of the room.

Victor was next. He moved with an air of defiance, his shoulders squared, his jaw set in a hard line. He sat down across from Harris, folding his hands on the table.

"Mr. Victor Westwood," Harris began, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. "You were sitting next to your father at dinner, correct?"

Victor nodded once. "Yes."

"Did you notice anything unusual before he collapsed?"

Victor's expression didn't waver, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. "No. He was fine one moment and choking the next."

Harris tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "And during dinner? Was there any tension? Anything said that might have upset him?"

Victor hesitated, his gaze flicking to August and then to Rose. "No," he said after a moment. "It was just... dinner."

Harris leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but probing. "Your hands were on your father when you attempted CPR. Did you notice anything unusual? A smell, a reaction, anything that struck you as odd?"

Victor's nostrils flared slightly. "I noticed blood," he said bluntly. "And panic. That's it."

"Your relationship with your father-how would you describe it?" Harris asked suddenly, his tone shifting.

Victor's fists clenched subtly on the table. "He was my father," he said tightly. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but that's normal, isn't it?"

Harris raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Thank you, Mr. Westwood."

Victor rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He moved to stand by the fireplace, his back turned to the room.

Rose was next. She had been pacing near the windows, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. When Harris called her name, she froze for a moment before reluctantly sitting down.

"Miss Rose Westwood," Harris began, his tone softening slightly. "I understand this is very difficult for you, but I need your cooperation."

Rose nodded quickly, her eyes darting nervously around the room. "I'll try," she murmured.

"Were you paying attention to your father during dinner?"

Rose shook her head slightly, her blond hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. "Not really," she admitted. "We weren't talking much."

Harris's pen hovered above his notebook. "Did you notice anything unusual before he collapsed? Anything he said or did that stood out?"

Rose bit her lip, her brows knitting together. "No," she said softly. "It just... happened. I didn't know what to do."

"Do you recall what your father ate or drank?"

Rose frowned, her gaze dropping to the table. "He had wine. And lamb, I think. Same as everyone."

Harris studied her closely. "And earlier today? Did your father mention feeling unwell or behaving differently?"

Rose hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "No," she whispered.

Harris closed his notebook but didn't break eye contact. "Thank you, Miss Westwood."

Rose bolted from the chair the moment she was dismissed, retreating to a corner of the room where she hugged herself tightly.

Next, the household staff was brought in one by one: the chef, the butler, and two maids who had been on duty.

"I prepared the lamb myself," the chef said, his voice steady but cautious. "It was fresh, high-quality. Nothing unusual about it."

The butler, a tall man with a stiff posture, added, "I poured the wine. It was from the bottle Mr. Westwood personally selected. There was nothing out of the ordinary."

The two maids, however, exchanged nervous glances. "We set the table and cleared the dishes," one of them stammered. "But we didn't touch the food or drinks."

"Did you notice anything unusual before or during dinner?" Harris asked, his tone sharp.

The maids shook their heads quickly, their faces pale. "No, sir," one of them said.

Harris pressed for details, but none of the staff could offer anything suspicious. Still, their unease lingered as they were dismissed.

As the questioning continued, August sat in silence, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. He replayed the night over and over, scrutinizing every detail, every word spoken, every glance exchanged.

His mother's composure seemed too fragile, as though a deeper fear loomed beneath her grief. Victor's clenched fists and curt answers betrayed a simmering anger he hadn't fully concealed. And Rose-her nervous fidgeting, her darting eyes-what was she hiding?

Even the servants' answers gnawed at him. Their unease felt out of place, as though they knew more than they were saying.

His gaze drifted to the dining table, to the bloodstained tablecloth that now felt like a barrier between them all. The house, usually a haven of luxury and control, now felt cold and foreign, its walls echoing with unspoken accusations.

Detective Harris conferred quietly with his team, their voices low but tense. August's stomach churned as he caught fragments of their conversation.

His father's death wasn't just a tragedy. It was a mystery-a tangled web of secrets, lies, and motives. And August couldn't shake the feeling that the answers were closer than anyone wanted to admit.

Detective Harris stood near the head of the dining table, his notebook in hand and his sharp gaze sweeping the room. The family and staff had been questioned, and yet, the unease in his expression lingered. He gestured to his partner, a younger officer with a notepad, and leaned in to confer. Their hushed tones filled the tense silence.

August sat back, his arms crossed, observing the scene. The adrenaline that had kept him numb was beginning to wear off, leaving him restless. He replayed the night in his mind-Jonathan's sudden collapse, the blood, the chaos. But amidst the cacophony of his thoughts, a subtle realization crept in: something-or someone-was missing.

Harris's voice cut through the tension. "Before we proceed further," he said, addressing the room, "I need to know if there's anyone who should be here but isn't. Does anyone else frequent this home regularly? A family friend, an employee, or a caretaker of any kind?"

Aurora, sitting with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up sharply at the question. She glanced at Victor, who avoided her gaze, then at Rose, whose focus remained fixed on the floor. A long, weighted silence followed, but Harris's piercing stare refused to let it linger.

Finally, one of the maids, a middle-aged woman with a timid demeanor, spoke hesitantly. "There's... Miss Scott," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harris's attention snapped to her. "Miss Scott?" he repeated, his pen poised over his notebook.

The maid nodded quickly, glancing nervously at Aurora for confirmation. "Vanessa Scott. She's Mr. Westwood's caretaker."

Aurora's posture stiffened, her hands curling into fists. "She's a nurse," she clarified, her tone clipped. "Jonathan required regular checkups and medication. Vanessa handled all of that."

Harris's eyes narrowed slightly, noting the defensive edge in Aurora's voice. "And where is Miss Scott now?"

Aurora opened her mouth, then faltered. Her gaze flicked to Victor, who shrugged unhelpfully, then to Rose, who still refused to look up. "I don't know," Aurora admitted reluctantly.

"When was the last time anyone saw her?" Harris pressed, his gaze sweeping the room.

The maid hesitated again. "She was here earlier today," she said. "She usually checks in during the afternoons. I-I don't know if she left before dinner."

"She was here," Aurora confirmed, her tone curt. "She gave Jonathan his medication. That's her job."

Harris's pen moved swiftly across the page. "So, to be clear, Miss Scott was in this house within hours of Mr. Westwood's death?"

"Yes," Aurora said, her voice tight.

"Does she have a regular schedule?" Harris asked.

Victor spoke up this time, his voice gruff. "She's here most afternoons. Sometimes she stays longer, depending on what's needed. But she usually leaves before dinner."

"And tonight?" Harris asked, his gaze shifting back to Aurora.

Aurora hesitated, her carefully composed mask beginning to crack. "I don't know," she said finally. "I assumed she left like she always does. I didn't see her during dinner."

Harris turned to the maid again. "Did you see Miss Scott leave the house?"

The maid shook her head quickly. "No, sir. But I wasn't paying close attention."

Harris's expression hardened as he turned back to Aurora. "Tell me about her," he said, his tone demanding but calm. "What's her background? How long has she worked here?"

Aurora exhaled sharply, her frustration barely concealed. "She's a private nurse. Highly recommended. Jonathan hired her about a year ago when his doctor suggested he needed more regular monitoring. She oversees his medication, tracks his blood pressure, that sort of thing."

"And her relationship with your husband?" Harris asked pointedly.

Aurora's eyes flashed with irritation. "Professional," she said firmly.

"Just professional?" Harris pressed, his tone carefully neutral.

Aurora's lips thinned. "Yes."

The detective nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "We'll need to speak with her. Do you have a way to contact her?"

Aurora nodded stiffly. "Her phone number is in the household records. I'll provide it to you."

Harris gestured to his partner, who began making arrangements to locate Vanessa Scott. The room grew heavier with silence as the detective's questions lingered in the air.

As the officers worked, August's mind lingered on the mention of Vanessa. He hadn't thought of her in the chaos of the evening, but now, her absence gnawed at him.

Vanessa had been a constant presence in their home for the past year, her quiet efficiency blending seamlessly into the background of their lives. She wasn't a stranger, yet she wasn't family either-a figure who moved with precision and purpose, always keeping a respectful distance.

But now, with his father dead and questions swirling, August couldn't ignore the strange feeling that accompanied the thought of her.

He tried to recall the last time he'd seen her. That afternoon, she'd been in the library with Jonathan, her medical bag perched neatly on a side table. He'd passed by the open door, catching a glimpse of her taking his father's blood pressure, her expression calm and focused.

She'd smiled at him in passing-a small, polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. August had nodded back, distracted by his own thoughts. He hadn't given her another moment's thought.

Now, that brief interaction felt loaded with significance.

"Do you think she had something to do with it?" Rose's voice broke through his thoughts.

August turned to her, startled. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes wide and glassy.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Rose shrugged, her gaze flitting nervously around the room. "She was here, wasn't she? And now she's not."

"That doesn't mean anything," August said firmly, though his own doubts lingered.

Rose's lips twitched into a nervous smirk. "You don't think it's suspicious? She's always so... perfect. Like she's trying too hard to blend in."

"She's a nurse, Rose," August snapped. "She does her job. That's it."

But even as he said the words, he wasn't sure he believed them.

Half an hour later, Detective Harris's partner returned with a phone in hand, his expression grim. He handed it to Harris, who listened intently to the voice on the other end.

"Understood," Harris said after a moment, his voice steady. He hung up and turned to the room.

"Miss Scott has been located," he announced, his tone sharp. "She's at her apartment. She claims she left this house around six o'clock this evening and has been home since."

Aurora frowned. "Why didn't she answer when we called her earlier?"

"She says she didn't hear her phone," Harris replied.

"Convenient," Victor muttered, earning a sharp look from his mother.

"We'll be speaking with her shortly," Harris continued. He turned his attention to August. "Do you remember seeing her leave the house, Mr. Westwood?"

August hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn't recall hearing the front door, couldn't remember the sound of her car pulling out of the long driveway. But that didn't mean she hadn't left.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. "I wasn't paying attention."

Harris nodded, making a note. "We'll see what she has to say."

As the officers prepared to leave, August felt a knot of tension settle in his chest. The image of Vanessa-calm, composed, methodical-clashed with the growing suspicion that surrounded her.

He couldn't shake the feeling that when the truth came out, it would change everything he thought he knew about her-and about his father's death.