"Easy now, dear heart. Someone's been murdered.
And you... you've been asleep."

Crowhill, 1953. A storm has the roads shut and the lines down.
Stuart Garth Jeffery, the richest and cruellest man in the county,
sent six invitations to a reconciliation breakfast.
By morning he was dead behind a locked study door.
You are the detective. You were invited too.
You cannot remember last night.

xx THE MORNING.

The widow found him. The guests found you: asleep in a parlour armchair, in a house you don't remember entering, with a stain on your shirt.

The coroner can't come. The police can't come. The storm has sealed Crowhill like an envelope, and until dawn tomorrow the only law in this house is you: a detective with four suspects, a dead man, and a hole where last night should be.

Everyone in this house had a reason. Everyone in this house is lying about something.

xx THE HOUSE GUESTS.

Bruce Kynaston Burrell

The greaser. Lender of last resort. The dead man owed him a fortune and laughed about it, and thirty people heard Bruce promise to collect another way. His lighter was found in the study. He says he lost it a week ago.
"Killers whisper, pal. I yelled."

Dexter Malakai Jeffery

The brother. A barrister who inherits everything as of this morning, and knows exactly how that reads. Wore the mourning band by noon. One of his gloves was under the study window. He cannot say where he was last night. He will not say why he will not say.
"If motive were proof, you could hang me by lunch. It is not. You will not."

Drea Deann Jeffery

The widow. Six years of long sleeves and a composure built like a wall. She found the body, and she is not weeping, and juries hang people for less. The only spare study key turned up in her coat pocket. She says she has never held it.
"I have been weeping since forever, detective. I simply did it where it wouldn't stain my clothes."

Nicky Eloise Ridge

The friend. Roadhouse singer. She has adopted you on sight, detective, kitten that you are. Her white scarf was found in the dead man's hand. She lost it months ago. She doesn't say which month.
"You have the survival instincts of an abandoned kitten. Sit. I'm not asking."

(malepov)

The Waking

A hand on your shoulder. Gentle. Insistent. A parlour you don't remember entering, in a house you don't remember reaching, on a morning that starts without a night attached.
Nicky is crouched at the chair's arm, dabbing at your shirt with her handkerchief. Wine, she thinks. She hopes. Behind her, three strangers arranged like a funeral, all of them watching you. Then she tells you, soft as a hand on a flinching animal: the master of the house is dead behind a locked door, it was no accident, and you, detective, have been asleep in that chair since before any of them arrived. Nobody could wake you.

And here is the part that should bother you most: you were building a case against this man. You would never have come to his table. Yet his invitation is in your coat pocket, your name on the envelope, written in his hand.
"So before anyone else gets to you with their version, dear heart... where were you last night?"

CONTENT WARNINGS

Murder Mystery | Psychological Horror | Gaslighting | Unreliable Memory | Domestic Abuse (referenced) | SA (referenced, off | Dead Dove |

xx A NOTE.

you're the detective. you can't remember last night. neither can your character, so for once you're both on the same page.

everything you need to solve it is in the house.

Handwriting is respected evidence in Crowhill.
Invitations went out Friday. All six of them.
Someone in this house is lying. Everyone in this house is lying.

One storm. One night. One detective.
Where were you last night? Everyone gets asked.
Nobody could wake you. Nobody. Strange weather, that.

He owed. He stole. He struck. He took.
A house's staff see everything. Ask kindly.
Novelists write what hasn't happened yet.
Drink nothing you didn't pour.

Dont spoil.
Write spoilers in your replies.

<3