Chapter 3: The Murder Scene

The Nightmare Begins

It was 11:47 p.m. when Olivia pulled into the driveway at the Harrington mansion. The rain had stopped, but the air remained charged with the scent of damp earth. The house loomed in front of her, the windows shrouded in a foreboding.

She stepped out of the car, her heels clicking on the concrete. The mansion was eerily silent, the familiar hum of staff and security strangely absent. Olivia frowned, her unease growing with every step as she approached the front door.

The door creaked open, and the cavernous foyer came into view. The chandelier overhead cast harsh shadows on the marble floor. Olivia's breath arrested as she stepped inside, her senses shouting that something was wrong.

"Victor?" she called out, her voice echoing through the empty halls.

No response.

She moved forward, her heart pounding. The study door was ajar by an inch, a sliver of light spilling out into the hallway. Olivia pushed it open, her hand trembling on the doorknob.

And she saw him.

Victor lay sprawled on the ground, his once pristine white shirt covered in red. A drop of blood oozed from under him, glinting in the dim light. A knife at his side was bloodied on the blade.

Olivia's scream was caught in her throat. She stumbled backward, her hands crashing into her mouth. "No… no, no, no!"

She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands hovering over his body as if she were too scared to touch him. "Victor?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

But he was dead. His eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling, his face frozen in a shock mask.

The Trap

Olivia's thoughts were racing, her panic clutching at her chest. She reached for her phone, her blood-sticky hands shaking, but before she could dial, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

She was paralyzed, her breath caught in her throat. The footsteps grew louder, and with them the crackle of a radio.

"Police! Hands where we can see them!"

Olivia's head snapped up as two officers burst into the room, guns raised. She raised her hands involuntarily, her heart pounding.

"It's not what it looks like!" she cried, her voice trembling. "I just discovered him like this!"

One of the officers moved forward, his eyes sweeping the room. "Ma'am, step away from the body.".

Olivia rushed to her feet, still with her hands up. "You must listen to me, please! I did not do this!"

The other officer moved forward to cuff her; his hold unyielding. "You have the right to remain silent…"

Olivia's mind clouded over from the words washing over her. This was not happening. This was not going to occur.

The Interrogation

The police station was a cloud of fluorescent lighting and harsh voices. Olivia was sitting in a small, windowless room, her wrists secured to the table. Her shirt was smeared with Victor's blood, and her head was a whirlpool of terror and confusion.

The door had creaked open, and a detective had walked in. He was a tall, angular man with angular features and cold, calculating eyes. He laid a file on the table and sat down opposite her.

"Olivia Sinclair," he said in a neutral tone. "Do you know why you're here?"

Olivia swallowed hard, her dry throat aching. "This is a mistake. I didn't kill Victor."

The detective moved closer, his eyes burning. "So why were your fingerprints on the knife? Why were you covered in his blood?"

"I found him like that!" Olivia cried out, her voice rising. "I was trying to help him!"

The detective's expression was unchanging. "And the security camera video of you entering the house alone? The lack of forced entry? The fact that you were alone in there?"

Olivia's heart sank. "I didn't do it," she panted, her voice breaking.

The detective lifted his head, sitting back in his chair. "You can keep on lying, Mrs. Harrington. But the evidence says otherwise."

The Media Frenzy

By dawn, the news spread. Olivia's image was plastered across every television screen, the titles screaming: "Billionaire Victor Harrington Killed! Wife Charged with Murder!

She leaned against her bed, elbows resting on knees, head in hands, as the din of reporters yelling outside echoed within walls.

"Olivia! Did you kill your husband?"

"Was it for money?"

"What do you have to say to Victor's children?"

The door creaked open, and her lawyer came in. He was a middle-aged man with a weary expression on his face but sharp eyes.

"Olivia," he said, taking the opposite chair facing her. "We need to talk."

She looked up, her red-rimmed, sunken eyes filled with tears. "I didn't do it," she whispered.

"I know you didn't," he replied. "But the proof is against you. We have to discover who did it—and in a hurry."

The Missing Flash Drive

Olivia was freed on bail later that day, thanks to her attorney's connections. She returned to the mansion; her heavy footsteps filled with dread.

The room was taped off by the police, but Olivia managed to slip through, her heart pounding. She had to know.

She approached Victor's desk, her eyes scanning the surface. The police had taken most of the evidence, but they'd missed something—a small, nearly invisible gap in the wood paneling.

Olivia's breath caught as she ran her fingers over it. A secret compartment opened, and an empty space was exposed. The flash drive was gone.

No, she whispered, her head reeling. Someone had taken it before the police arrived. Who? And why?

The Warning

Olivia turned to leave when a flash of light caught her eye. She knelt down beside Victor's desk, her hand against the floor.

There, in blood, was one line: He found out.

Olivia's blood ran cold. Found out what?

Before she had a chance to process the words, a noise from down the hallway froze her. Footsteps. Someone was coming.

She stepped out of the study, her heart pounding. She reached the front door, pushed it open, and glanced over her shoulder.

This wasn't done. Not by a long shot.