"Marcus..." Celeste whispered, reaching out to grasp his sleeve with trembling, blood-stained fingers. "Maybe... maybe we shouldn't involve the police tonight. Think of the family name. The press will destroy the Vance BioTech stock if this gets leaked to the tabloids... I don't want to ruin your future because of what your father did to me..."
Eleanor let out a sharp, humorless laugh that cut through the room like a silver dagger.
"Listen to her, Marcus," Eleanor said, folding her arms across her plum blouse. "Two minutes ago she was screaming for her life, claiming Harlan was a homicidal maniac. Now, faced with a uniformed detective, she is suddenly an angel of corporate public relations, deeply concerned about our quarterly stock valuation. How remarkably considerate of her."
"Shut up, Mom!" Marcus hissed, though his voice lacked a fraction of its former certainty.
The heavy mahogany double doors of the library swung open.
Sergeant Kieran Reid entered. At forty-five, Reid was a broad-shouldered man with a square jaw, wearing the dark-navy uniform of the county police department. His service belt was clean, his demeanor relaxed yet hyper-observant. He stepped into the library, his keen blue eyes scanning the room in two seconds: the blood on the blue gown, the stain on the linen, Harlan’s scratched cheek, and Marcus’s aggressive stance.
"Alright," Reid said, closing the door behind him and resting his thumb lightly upon his duty belt. "Nobody leaves this room. Let's hear what happened."
CHAPTER VI: THE ANATOMY OF A CRIME
"Arrest him, Kieran," Marcus said, pointing directly at Harlan. "My father assaulted Celeste in his private study upstairs. He choked her, shoved her against the dresser, and lacerated her chest. Look at the state of her."
Reid did not immediately draw his handcuffs. He walked slowly toward the sofa, pulling a pair of sterile latex gloves from his utility pouch. He snapped them onto his hands with a crisp, rubbery pop.
"Miss DuPont," Reid said, kneeling on one knee beside the sofa. "Are you currently in need of an emergency paramedic unit?"
Celeste winced, letting out a weak, theatrical whimper. "My head is pounding, Officer... he was so violent... he dragged me by my hair..."
Reid leaned closer, inspecting her scalp. His gloved fingers gently parted her thick, styled brown curls.
"No hair avulsions," Reid noted aloud in a dry, clinical tone. "No localized edema along the cranial baseline. No bruising on the cervical vertebrae."
He shifted his gaze downward to her mouth and the blue dress. He pulled a sterile cotton swab from his pocket kit, gently dabbed it against the wet crimson substance near the corner of Celeste’s mouth, and brought it to his nose.
Reid’s eyebrows climbed slightly.
"Theater makeup," Reid stated flatly. "Stage grade. High-viscosity glucose base with synthetic red dye number forty. Used extensively in amateur drama productions and Halloween effects. It washes off with warm water."
Marcus froze. "What?"
"I asked for real blood, Marcus," Reid said, turning his head to look at the younger man. "This is confectioner’s syrup."
"No!" Celeste screamed, suddenly sitting bolt upright on the sofa, her voice shedding every trace of its frail, dying whisper. "He cut my chest! Look at the cut! That's my real blood!"
Reid leaned down and inspected the thin red line over her clavicle.
"This is indeed human blood," Reid said calmly. "A linear, superficial scratch, approximately three centimeters in length. The angle of incision begins shallow on the upper right and deepens toward the lower left, ending in a distinct 'tailing' effect."
Reid stood up, looking at Harlan, and then back at Celeste.
"Miss DuPont, Harlan Vance is right-handed. Had he stood before you and slashed at your chest with a blade or broken glass, the incision tailing would run from left to right, conforming to the natural anatomical arc of an external assailant's swing. But this cut runs from right to left—an angle perfectly consistent with a right-handed person holding a sharp object against their own chest and dragging it across their skin in a mirror."
"Are you insane?!" Celeste yelled, her eyes bulging with hysteria. "You're covering for him! He’s your friend! You're framing me!"
"Nobody is framing you, Celeste," Harlan said, stepping out from the shadows of the bookcase.
The patriarch’s voice was no longer trembling. It was cold, clear, and devastatingly steady.
"Sergeant Reid," Harlan said, reaching into his cardigan pocket, "would you mind accompanying me up to my study for sixty seconds? There is something sitting on the corner of my mahogany desk that Marcus needs to see."
CHAPTER VII: THE FORENSIC UNMASKING
The five of them ascended the stairs once more.
Marcus walked behind Celeste, his eyes fixed on the floor, his mind battling against the horrific, creeping realization that had begun to dismantle his reality. Eleanor walked beside her husband, her hand firmly intertwined with his, her chin held high with regal dignity.
Harlan opened the heavy oak door to his private study.