"Every answer demands a price. Some are paid in blood, others in silence."
"Always the same… Just when I think I'll have a quiet week, someone dies on the other side of the map."
He turned the steering wheel with one hand while holding a cup of cold coffee in the other. The road was narrow, winding, flanked by towering, suffocating trees.
"Simple case, they said. Just confirm the cause of death, they said."
A faded sign passed by the car window: "Welcome to Acacia Valley."
He exhaled through his nose.
"A place named after a flower? Death has an odd taste for irony."
In the distance, atop the hill, the mansion emerged from between the trees—dark, old, like it had been waiting for him.
The detective pulled up at the end of the dirt road, grabbed his briefcase, adjusted his coat, and eyed the house.
"Alright. Let's see who killed who this time."
The man who opened the door was painfully thin, his hair slicked back so tight it looked glued in place.
"Detective Marcos, right? We were expecting someone… younger."
Marcos smiled, but not with his eyes.
"And I was expecting a house with fewer secrets in the air."
The body lay on the study floor, slightly turned. No signs of struggle. But the untouched teacup on the armrest of the sofa whispered a different story.
"Who served this?"
Silence. A clock ticked, mocking.
"Tragic, isn't it?" the eldest nephew remarked.
"Not at all." The detective didn't even glance up.
Marcos studied the body once more. No resistance. No struggle. The teacup sat untouched, still perfect.
"You found him?" he asked the butler.
"Yes, sir. Seven in the morning. The door was ajar."
Marcos shrugged.
"I'm not here to ask permission."
Inside, everything seemed untouched—except for the open diary tossed across the desk, its pages yellowed and scribbled in frantic strokes.
Marcos flipped through the pages hastily, barely reading, until a folded sheet caught his attention.
He picked up the note, folded it again carefully, and slipped it into his pocket without a word.
"You're telling me no one read this?" Marcos asked, brushing his finger over the paper, almost feeling the words scream.
In the dead man's bedroom, with the note now secured, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. A shadow crossed his field of vision, vanishing around the corner.
Marcos narrowed his eyes. The game had begun.
"Shall we continue the tour?" the butler asked, his voice calm.
The detective nodded. They stepped out of the room carefully.
The butler stopped in front of a door.
"You can't go in here, sir. The lady doesn't want to set foot in this room. Too many memories of the patriarch."
Marcos tried to insist, but the butler was firm.
They moved to another door. Marcos twisted the handle, but it wouldn't budge.
"The key?" he asked.
"I don't know who has it," the butler replied, a hint of discomfort in his tone.
As they walked down the corridor, a sudden bang echoed—one of the windows had slammed shut inside the bathroom. Marcos shot a quick glance, alert to the unusual noise.
They reached another locked door.
From under it, a loud blast of rock music seeped through—distorted guitar, heavy drums—completely out of place in the house's eerie silence.
"Looks like she doesn't want to be disturbed," Marcos muttered, suspicion growing.
They kept moving through the hallway, eyes sharp in the mansion's quiet.
At the bathroom door, the butler opened it carefully, revealing a bright room bathed in sunlight filtering through the open window, its frame swaying with the wind.
Marcos scanned the space with sharp eyes.
"Who the hell leaves a window like this open in a house like this?" he murmured.
The butler simply shrugged, avoiding his gaze.
Marcos paused for a moment, eyes locked onto the curtain, rippling in the draft.
"Who leaves a window open in an old mansion like this? Either it's neglect… or an invitation to hell."
His eyes narrowed.
The butler said nothing, turned, and continued the tour. Marcos followed, his footsteps echoing against the groaning floorboards—heavy under the weight of secrets.
Back through the bedrooms, he studied the locked doors, the empty spaces, and felt something was out of place. An invisible threat.
"Too many secrets for a house like this. And not enough people willing to let them surface."
The detective descended the staircase with the distinct feeling that he was walking straight into a snake's nest, each step reverberating against the suffocating silence of the hall.
Before he could fully orient himself, a voice broke the air—sharp, dripping with sarcasm.
"Finally decided to show up, huh? Thought you'd spend the whole day hiding behind that suit."
Marcos almost smiled, but irritation tightened his throat. He stepped forward firmly, his body language saying:
"Better watch that sharp tongue, kid."
The boy had no idea what he was poking at. If he had an ounce of respect, he'd keep his mouth shut.
"You're telling me no one read this?" Marcos asked, brushing his finger over the paper, almost feeling the words scream.
In the dead man's bedroom, with the note now secured, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor. A shadow crossed his field of vision, vanishing around the corner.
Marcos narrowed his eyes. The game had begun.
"Shall we continue the tour?" the butler asked, his voice calm.
The detective nodded. They stepped out of the room carefully.
The butler stopped in front of a door.
"You can't go in here, sir. The lady doesn't want to set foot in this room. Too many memories of the patriarch."
Marcos tried to insist, but the butler was firm.
They moved to another door. Marcos twisted the handle, but it wouldn't budge.
"The key?" he asked.
"I don't know who has it," the butler replied, a hint of discomfort in his tone.
As they walked down the corridor, a sudden bang echoed—one of the windows had slammed shut inside the bathroom. Marcos shot a quick glance, alert to the unusual noise.
They reached another locked door.
From under it, a loud blast of rock music seeped through—distorted guitar, heavy drums—completely out of place in the house's eerie silence.
"Looks like she doesn't want to be disturbed," Marcos muttered, suspicion growing.
They kept moving through the hallway, eyes sharp in the mansion's quiet.
At the bathroom door, the butler opened it carefully, revealing a bright room bathed in sunlight filtering through the open window, its frame swaying with the wind.
Marcos scanned the space with sharp eyes.
"Who the hell leaves a window like this open in a house like this?" he murmured.
The butler simply shrugged, avoiding his gaze.
Marcos paused for a moment, eyes locked onto the curtain, rippling in the draft.
"Who leaves a window open in an old mansion like this? Either it's neglect… or an invitation to hell."
His eyes narrowed.
The butler said nothing, turned, and continued the tour. Marcos followed, his footsteps echoing against the groaning floorboards—heavy under the weight of secrets.
Back through the bedrooms, he studied the locked doors, the empty spaces, and felt something was out of place. An invisible threat.
"Too many secrets for a house like this. And not enough people willing to let them surface."
The detective descended the staircase with the distinct feeling that he was walking straight into a snake's nest, each step reverberating against the suffocating silence of the hall.
Before he could fully orient himself, a voice broke the air—sharp, dripping with sarcasm.
"Finally decided to show up, huh? Thought you'd spend the whole day hiding behind that suit."
Marcos almost smiled, but irritation tightened his throat. He stepped forward firmly, his body language saying:
"Better watch that sharp tongue, kid."
The boy had no idea what he was poking at. If he had an ounce of respect, he'd keep his mouth shut.
They turned left, passing by the mansion's two guest bedrooms. From behind a door, a sharp voice exploded:
"Go away!"
Marcos stopped in front of the closed door, raised his hand, and spoke slowly.
"I just want to talk. To understand what happened."
Silence. Cold, heavy.
"She's done with me. With me, with the world."
He tried again, lowering his voice slightly.
"I need your help to clear this up."
More silence. No response. Marcos didn't push further.
Down the right hallway, they passed the dining room and entered the kitchen, where the new maid struggled to hide her nervousness behind a fragile smile.
Beside her, the butler watched everything with tired eyes—eyes weighed down by decades of the house's history.
"Her? Barely six months here. Still doesn't know the rules of this place."
"Every answer demands a price. Some are paid in blood, others in silence."
Marcos flicked a quick glance at the girl, pressing his lips together.
"Every step in this house is an invitation to sink deeper into its maze of lies."
He took a deep breath, bracing for what was yet to come.
Marcos stopped in front of the maid, who avoided his gaze, fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of her apron.
"Something bothering you?" Marcos asked, his tone firm but not harsh.
She swallowed hard, voice shaky, hesitant.
"It's just… this house, sir… some things here are hard to explain."
The butler cast her a near-protective glance, cutting in before she could say more.
"She's still settling in. Best not to press too much."
The detective nodded, turned away, and headed toward the kitchen's back door.
"Let's take a walk through the garden. I want to see every inch of this house."
The service door creaked open. Cool late-morning air poured into the heavy atmosphere.
Outside, trampled leaves and snapped branches traced a crooked path, like someone had rushed through in a hurry. Marcos crouched, running his hand over the flattened foliage.
"Strange…" he murmured.
"Who would leave a mess like this, moving so fast?"
They walked to the garage, left wide open, sunlight spilling across its worn walls. On the ground, fresh tire marks made one thing clear—someone had left recently.
"Did someone already leave?" Marcos asked the butler, his eyes fixed on the tracks.
The butler replied in his usual calm tone, though something unsettled lingered beneath his words.
"That car belongs to Mr. Rubens, but I didn't see him leave… And I don't know when he'll be back."
Marcos exhaled, eyes locked onto the open garage.
"Leaving it like this—wide open—doesn't fit this house. Doesn't look like anyone bothered to inform me, either."
"Someone here is either trying to throw me off… or making sure I don't see something."
They made their way back, entering through the side door that led to the grand hall. The mansion, with its endless corridors and echoing silence, waited with the patience of something that had seen this play out before.
Marcos glanced at the butler, who stood watching in silence—wordlessly saying, "There's far more to this than you think."
"Let's keep going," the detective muttered, clenching his fists.
"Every answer in this house only unlocks a bigger box of mysteries."
He pivoted sharply, like a general with no tolerance for nonsense, and barked,
"Gather everyone in the sitting room. The family drama is about to begin."
The butler hesitated for just a second. Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps swallowed by the thickening silence.
A few moments later, it wasn't him who returned—but the maid, apron tied tight, her face pale like she'd seen a ghost crawl out of its grave.
"S-Sir…" she stammered, voice trembling.
"I… I tried calling Miss Helena, but she's got those headphones on and… and she yelled that she's not leaving her room 'just because someone died. Again.'"
"Again?" Marcos echoed, raising an eyebrow.
"Death around here is just routine, then?"
The maid swallowed hard, forcing herself to hold some composure.
"And Lady Beatriz… She locked herself in. Said she lost everything. That her son was… was everything to her."
She hesitated before finishing.
"She said if anyone wants to talk… they should speak to the dead."
"Poetic," murmured the detective, crossing his arms. "First the husband, now the son. This family needs less comfort and more of an exorcism."
The maid lowered her head, visibly uneasy. The butler reappeared behind her, looking embarrassed, like his mere presence made him guilty by association.
Marcos sighed, already exhausted by the theatrics.
"Incredible. House full, and yet no one wants to crawl out of their pit. The mother locked in eternal melodrama, the daughter screaming, and you two looking like extras in a 1940s radio tragedy."
"We tried, sir…" the butler offered, hesitant.
"Tried? With that enthusiasm? You sound like you're announcing an electricity rate hike."
A voice cut through the exchange from the doorway.
"Are you gonna complain about the decor too, or are you saving your ammo?"
Marcos slowly turned, recognizing the face with the same disdain reserved for a particularly unwelcome hangover.
"You again…" he muttered. "And I haven't even asked your name yet. Let's pretend now's the appropriate moment. What was it?"
"Arthur," the young man answered, wearing the smirk of someone long past caring about formalities.
"But feel free to keep calling me 'you' in that affectionate tone. I'll adjust."
"Arthur," Marcos repeated.
"Nephew of the deceased, right? Close enough to be part of the drama, but far enough to mock the audience."
"I only showed up because I heard the word theater. Figured there might be a decent script involved."
"There will be. If we're lucky, it'll be a tragedy—with an ensemble of badly rehearsed suspects."
Marcos glanced back at the butler and the maid.
"Alright. Let's set the stage—take notes, you two."
"We've got a mother locked in mystic collapse, a rebellious daughter in a musical trance, a nephew with the soul of a stage critic… and a corpse who, so far, remains the most well-mannered person in this house."
"Anyone missing?"
The butler scanned the room, hesitated for a second—but said nothing.
Silence answered for them.
Marcos took a deep breath, gazing at the empty stairwell like he was calculating the best place to fall.
"Perfect. We'll start with the ones who still have a pulse but pretend they don't. Let's see how long it takes for someone to slip and let the truth spill out."
He pivoted again, coat shifting with the movement, and strolled over to the nearest armchair by the cold fireplace.
Settling in, he cracked his fingers.
"Bring me coffee. Strong. And if there's poison in it, even better," he muttered. "Maybe it'll confess before I do."
And with that, the first act began—each cast member pretending they didn't know the script.