The server room was buried beneath the Blackwood mansion like a heart beneath a ribcage. Lila knew it existed — Leo had found references to it in the fragmented network logs he'd recovered — but getting inside was another matter entirely. The mansion was still an active crime scene, cordoned off by yellow tape and patrolled by Stonebrook's private security force. Arthur had doubled the guards since her last visit, and the surveillance grid was fully operational again, its cameras tracking every movement on the property.
But Arthur had made a mistake. He'd assumed that the only threats came from outside. He'd fortified his perimeter, sealed his gates, and trained his cameras on the streets. He hadn't considered the possibility that someone might already be inside.
Lila sat in her car, parked three blocks from the mansion's service entrance, and studied the blueprints Leo had sent her. The server room was located in a subbasement, accessible through a maintenance corridor that connected to the kitchen. The same corridor she'd used during her first visit. The same corridor whose electronic lock she'd already compromised.
The LockSafe 900 was still in her pocket. She'd recharged it overnight.
"Leo," she said into her phone. "Are you sure about the patrol schedule?"
"The guards rotate every fifteen minutes. The kitchen corridor is unmanned between two-fifteen and two-thirty AM. That's your window." Leo paused. "But Lila, if you get caught, I can't help you. You're not a cop. You don't have a warrant. Anything you find in there will be inadmissible in court."
"I'm not looking for admissible evidence. I'm looking for the truth."
"There's a difference?"
"There is when the truth has been buried under three years of lies and a surveillance empire designed to make sure no one ever finds it." She checked her watch. One-fifty-five AM. Twenty minutes until the patrol rotation. "Keep the line open. If I stop responding, call the state police and tell them an officer of the court is in danger."
"You're not an officer of the court. You're a defense attorney."
"Close enough."
She slipped out of the car and moved through the darkness, sticking to the shadows cast by the ancient oak trees. The streets of Stonebrook were silent at this hour, the perfect suburban silence of a community that believed itself safe. But Lila knew better. Stonebrook wasn't safe. It was just watched.
The service entrance was exactly where she'd left it, hidden behind the row of cypress trees. The electronic lock still bore the faint scratches from her LockSafe. She pressed the device against the control panel and waited. The lock clicked open in twelve seconds.
The service corridor was dark, but she'd brought a flashlight this time — a small tactical light with a red filter that wouldn't trigger the motion sensors. She moved through the narrow passage, past the industrial shelving and the cleaning supplies, until she reached the kitchen.
The kitchen was still frozen in time. The cutting board with its browned lemon slices. The empty space where the chef's knife had been. The faint smell of bleach and wilted flowers. But tonight, there was something else. A new smell. Cigarette smoke.
Lila froze. Someone had been here. Recently.
She killed her flashlight and pressed herself against the wall, listening. The mansion was silent except for the distant hum of the HVAC system. No footsteps. No voices. But the smoke was fresh, still hanging in the air like a warning.
She waited for a full minute before moving again. The subbasement entrance was at the far end of the kitchen, behind a door disguised as a pantry. Leo's blueprints had labeled it as "MECHANICAL ROOM — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." The door was heavy, reinforced with steel, and protected by a keypad lock.
She pulled out her phone and texted Leo: "I need the keypad code."
"Working on it. Give me two minutes."
She waited in the darkness, counting the seconds. The cigarette smoke was stronger here, acrid and familiar. Someone had been standing in this exact spot, smoking and waiting. But waiting for what?
Her phone buzzed. "Code is 8-7-1-9. Margaret's birthday."
Lila typed in the numbers. The lock clicked open.
The stairwell beyond was narrow and steep, descending into darkness. The walls were unfinished concrete, sweating with condensation. The air grew colder with each step, carrying the faint metallic smell of server coolant and ozone. Somewhere below, she could hear the rhythmic hum of machinery.
The subbasement was larger than she'd expected. A long corridor stretched before her, lined with server racks that blinked with thousands of tiny blue lights. The heat from the machines was palpable, a dry warmth that made the air feel electric. At the far end of the corridor, a single workstation was set up — a desk, a monitor, a chair. Someone had been working here. Recently.
Lila approached the workstation. The monitor was dark, but the computer beneath the desk was running, its fan whirring softly. She touched the mouse, and the screen flickered to life.
It wasn't locked.
The desktop was cluttered with files — surveillance logs, network maps, backup archives. She opened the most recent folder, labeled "GALA — NIGHT OF."
Inside were dozens of video files, each one timestamped to the minute. The camera feeds from the night of the murder. The feeds that had gone dark during the seven-minute blackout.
She opened the first file. The foyer camera. Seven-forty PM, one minute before the lights went out. The guests were milling about, champagne glasses in hand, their faces frozen in expressions of forced gaiety. Arthur was talking to the Mahmouds. Margaret was standing near the grand piano. Eleanor was staring at her own reflection in the two-way mirror.
And behind Eleanor, visible only in the mirror's reflection, a figure was standing perfectly still. Watching.
Lila zoomed in. The figure was male, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit. Not Gerald Finch — Gerald was visible on the other side of the room. This was someone else. Someone who didn't belong at the party.
She advanced the footage frame by frame. The figure in the mirror didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe, it seemed. Just stood there, watching Eleanor, his face obscured by shadow.
And then the lights went out. The screen went black.
She opened the next file. This one was from a different camera — the one hidden behind the two-way mirror. It had its own backup power supply, separate from the main grid. It had continued recording for exactly ninety seconds after the blackout began.
The footage was grainy, shot in infrared. Lila watched as the party descended into chaos. Guests stumbling in the darkness. Glasses shattering. Mouths open in silent screams. And through the chaos, a figure moved with perfect, practiced ease. The same broad-shouldered figure from the mirror. He navigated the crowded room without hesitation, stepping around panicking guests as if he could see in the dark.
He was wearing night-vision goggles.
Lila watched in horror as the figure approached Gerald Finch. Gerald was standing near the grand piano, his hand reaching for something in his jacket — a weapon, maybe, or a phone. The figure moved behind him, and there was a flash of metal, and Gerald crumpled to the floor.
The chef's knife. The one Margaret had been holding in the kitchen. The figure had taken it from her. Or she'd given it to him.
The figure moved again, this time toward the two-way mirror where Eleanor was standing. But he didn't approach Eleanor. Instead, he knelt beside a body that was already on the floor — Margaret's body, though Lila hadn't seen her fall. The figure pressed something into Margaret's hand. The broken camera lens. Then he pressed something else into Eleanor's hand — the letter opener. And then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.
The footage ended.
Lila sat frozen, her heart pounding. The figure in the infrared footage was a professional. A killer who'd trained for this, who'd rehearsed every movement, who'd executed two people in ninety seconds without hesitation. This wasn't a crime of passion. This was an assassination.
And the killer was someone who knew Arthur's mansion intimately. Someone who had access to night-vision equipment. Someone who'd been standing in the foyer before the blackout, watching Eleanor through the two-way mirror.
She opened another file, this one from earlier in the evening. The kitchen camera — the one Margaret had destroyed. The footage was intact until seven-thirty PM, when Margaret entered the kitchen alone. She was holding the chef's knife. Her hands were trembling. She walked to the pantry — the door that led to the subbasement — and opened it.
A man stepped out. The same broad-shouldered man from the mirror. He took the knife from Margaret's hands. They spoke for a moment, their faces close, their voices too low for the microphone to capture. Then the man nodded, and Margaret turned away, and the camera went dark.
Margaret had let him in. Margaret had given him the knife. Margaret had been complicit in her own death.
Lila's phone buzzed. Leo.
"Lila, you need to get out of there. The security patrol just changed routes. They're sweeping the kitchen corridor in three minutes."
"I found the footage. The murder was recorded. Someone — a professional — killed Gerald and Margaret. He used night-vision goggles. He planted the letter opener on Eleanor. And Margaret let him into the mansion through the subbasement."
"What?"
"She knew, Leo. Margaret knew she was going to die. She opened the door for her own killer." Lila's voice was shaking. "But why? Why would she do that?"
"Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she thought she was helping someone else."
"Or maybe she did know, and she chose to die because she thought it would expose Arthur."
The sound of footsteps echoed from the top of the stairwell. Lila killed the monitor and pressed herself into the shadows behind a server rack. The footsteps grew louder, descending the stairs with deliberate, measured tread. Not the hurried footsteps of a security guard. Something calmer. More confident.
A figure emerged from the stairwell. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit. The same figure from the footage.
He walked past Lila's hiding spot without pausing, heading toward the workstation. She watched as he sat down at the desk, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. The ember glowed orange in the darkness.
"You can come out now, Mrs. Cross," he said without turning around. "I've been expecting you."
Lila didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The man took a long drag of his cigarette. "My name is Victor Marsh. I believe you've heard of me. Eleanor mentioned me, I assume. The man who taught her everything she knows about deception." He turned to face her, and for the first time, Lila saw his face clearly. He was handsome in a weathered way, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that held no warmth at all. "I'm also the man who killed Margaret Blackwood and Gerald Finch. And I'm here to offer you a deal."
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