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Because underneath the official reports and the family stories, we both know there’s more to all of this than meets the eye. It’s what keeps forcing us to cross paths. Over and over.

If he’s going back to the very beginning, I know everything he’s about to say as well as I know the back of my own hand.

Henry Mayfair was strangled to death with a garrote, a cold, methodical way to kill someone—controlled, intentional, the work of someone who wanted to make sure he suffered.

And his son Peter? He seemed guilty as hell… on the surface.

The argument with Henry hours before his death. The security footage showing Peter entering the study late that night and never visibly leaving. A missing pair of gloves later found half burned in the fireplace of Peter’s guesthouse. Every piece of evidence pointed in one direction, and the jury followed it like breadcrumbs.

It was open and shut. A perfect conviction.

Too perfect.

The security footage was potato quality, the timestamps slightly off. No one ever saw Peter leave, but no one saw the real killer enter, either (in my humble opinion). The gloves in the fireplace were a convenient discovery. Who the fuck half burns incriminating evidence? And why was the murder weapon not shoved in there alongside them? To this day, they still haven’t found it.

The prosecution argued that Peter had a motive; a bitter, resentful son, angry about his father’s iron grip over the family fortune. But Peter had never shown any interest in the money, quite the opposite, actually, according to Emily.

He hated everything about the Mayfair wealth—the power games, the way money was used as both a weapon and a leash. He had spent most of his adult life distancing himself from it, refusing offers to work for the family businesses, declining his trust fund payouts, even choosing to live in a smaller home on the edge of the property instead of the sprawling main estate. If anything, Henry was the one who had wanted Peter more involved, constantly pressuring him to take his “rightful place” in the family.

And the offender’s approach? It didn’t fit. Peter wasn’t the type for patience; he was a man who punched through walls when he was angry, not someone who would calmly strangle his father and leave him seated at his desk like some grotesque exhibit.

Henry Mayfair’s murder hadn’t been impulsive. It had been calculated. The work of someone who planned ahead. And Peter?

Peter had never planned anything a day in his life.

Something about it never sat right with me. There’s a fragment of something missing between the evidence that put Peter Mayfair behind bars and the truth you see if you look a little closer.

“Wait,” August says. “Is that… the case?”

“It is,” Graham responds.

August looks back to Theo. “Go on…”

Theo closes his eyes for the briefest moment before continuing. “Peter Mayfair, who I defended, was convicted based on some pretty lacking evidence. He was easy to blame. He had a supposed motive, and his history with Henry was volatile. Henry was strangled with something. A garrote was what they said. But the weapon was never found, and the markings on his neck suggested something unconventional. No one ever figured out what was actually used. The authorities scoured the estate, questioned everyone, tore apart his study, but the killer’s means to his end had vanished without a trace.” The words settle between us before he adds, “Lila and I are here at the Mayfair compound to investigate Victoria’s very similar murder under the guise of comforting Emily Mayfair.”

I feel the need to add that I actually am also here for Emily.

August whistles. “That’s a lot. I need a drink.” He stands and disappears from view.

“Make that two,” Graham calls after him.

Theo pinches the bridge of his nose. He does that a lot. “Graham, I’m sending you a picture of what looks like a blood smear on the wall at the scene. Can you check if there’s anything logged about it or if it was even noticed?”

Graham nods. “Send it over.”

“I was also wondering if we could stop by the lab in a few days. I don’t want to leave the compound too early in our stay, so as not to raise any suspicions, but I have a sample I need you to run, especially if the smear wasn’t entered into evidence.”

Graham nods.

August reenters the frame and sits back down, two old fashioneds in hand. He hands one to Graham. I pout inwardly because I want one too. “Finish my bedtime story,” he demands, taking a sip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Theo’s lip twitch and I realize he’s enjoying this.

“The prosecution argued that the evidence stacked against Peter was irrefutable,” Graham says.

“Not you,” August brushes him off. “The beefy one you call your best friend.”

Graham looks at him like he’s going to pay for that later, and there is no stopping the smile on my face. This must be a long standing bit, and I love it.