crucifyheaven

Detective Ian Wren thought he had escaped the ghosts of his past, but the murder of Eleanor Montgomery pulls him into a web of deceit that threatens to unravel Hollow’s Edge. Eleanor was more than a philanthropist—she was the keystone of the town’s power dynamics. Her death exposes dark secrets tied to the elusive Crimson Hour Society, a shadowy group with ties to corruption and betrayal.

As Ian investigates, he uncovers layers of lies, each piece revealing deeper connections between Hollow’s Edge’s elite and Eleanor’s tragic demise. But the closer Ian gets to the truth, the more dangerous the game becomes. With each passing hour, Ian faces threats, red herrings, and the ghosts of his unsolved case—forcing him to confront his own failure and unravel the darkness hiding in plain sight.

In a town where trust is fleeting and redemption comes at a price, Ian must uncover the truth before the Crimson Hour strikes again.

The Crimson Hour

Chapter 1: The Body in the Parlor

The rain lashed mercilessly against the towering Victorian mansion, turning the windows into sheets of blurred glass. Detective Ian Wren paused at the edge of the marble floor in the entryway, droplets dripping from his trench coat onto the polished surface. The imposing grand staircase loomed to his left, curling upward like a twisting spine. Its ornate wooden banister was shattered near the base, jagged splinters spilling onto the rug below.

The mansion was an ode to Eleanor Montgomery's legacy—rich mahogany furniture, gilded mirrors that reflected flickering chandeliers, and artwork that whispered of refinement. Yet, none of it could mask the palpable tension in the room. Eleanor, Hollow's Edge's most beloved philanthropist, lay crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Her fragile body was sprawled across the crimson Persian rug, her once-commanding presence reduced to lifeless stillness.

Ian crouched beside her, his trained gaze sweeping the scene. A faint trail of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, staining the lace of her pearl-white blouse. Her hand, stretched toward the stairwell, seemed frozen mid-reach, as though trying to grasp the shards of the banister. But it was the wound on her temple that drew Ian's attention—clean, calculated, and too precise for a fall.

"Detective Wren." A clipped voice came from behind. Sheriff Evelyn Cross, a tall, no-nonsense woman whose sharp eyes carried years of experience, stepped into view. Her rain-soaked boots clicked against the floor. "The scene's been preserved as best as possible, but something about this doesn't sit right with me. Looks like a fall, but I know better."

Ian nodded silently, his fingers brushing against the torn edge of the Persian rug. Something was off. The rug was slightly askew, as if dragged or twisted—a detail that suggested movement, not just impact. His attention turned to the mirror above the mantle in the parlor, where a faint spiral was etched into the dust coating its surface. The spiral felt deliberate, like a mark left by someone with a message to convey.

"What do you make of it?" Evelyn's voice broke through his focus.

"It's staged," Ian replied, his tone measured. "The broken banister—it's too clean, too intentional. And the spiral…" His voice trailed off as he stepped toward the mirror, inspecting the crude symbol with a gloved hand.

Footsteps on the staircase drew his attention. A young woman stood gripping the banister, her knuckles white against the carved wood. Clara Montgomery, Eleanor's adopted daughter, was dressed in mourning black, her expression unreadable beneath the veil that hung from her hat. Her pale face bore traces of tears, her lips pressed into a line of restrained grief.

Ian straightened, softening his voice. "Clara Montgomery?"

She nodded, but her voice cracked as she answered. "Yes. You're the detective?"

"That's right." Ian took a step closer, his movements slow, deliberate. "I'm sorry for your loss. This must be overwhelming."

Clara's eyes darted between Ian and her mother's body. Her hands trembled, clutching the edge of the banister as though it were the only thing grounding her. "She didn't fall," Clara whispered, her voice carrying the weight of certainty.

Ian raised an eyebrow, studying the young woman. Her grief was evident, but beneath it lay something else—an edge, a flicker of resentment, or perhaps guilt. "What makes you say that?"

Clara's gaze hardened. "She was pushed. Someone… someone wanted her dead."