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Real crimes, shrunk down to a scale that fits in a shoebox.
Each one was a puzzle. A test. Not just of observation, but of interpretation. What really happened, and what people just assumed.
And maybe that’s all I’ve ever wanted—to see what everyone else misses. To look at the curated version and say, “Nope. Try again.”
The Mayfairs? They were practically made for that kind of scrutiny. Their wealth isn’t just old—it’s ancient, decaying at the roots.
It began in museum acquisitions and artifact trading.
The Mayfairs made their first fortune in the early nineteenth century, back when collecting meant taking whatever a colonized country couldn’t physically cement to the ground.
Henry’s great-great-grandfather, Archibald Mayfair, was a collector who trafficked in donations to universities. Wealthy families and so-called gentleman explorers built fortunes by inserting themselves into expeditions, then funneling the artifacts they removed into museums and universities, where acquisition was sorely mistaken for academic merit.
The ethics of cultural ownership were functionally nonexistent. With export laws still forming and oversight minimal, collectors operated freely, removing artifacts by the boatful. What followed was a familiar cycle: private hoarding, strategic loans, institutional validation, and a reputation scrubbed clean of the damage that made it possible.
The family still funds Bellwood’s anthropology department and campus exhibits.
That’s where it started, anyway.
The amount of money they have now doesn’t come from a colonizer's perception of hard work. It comes from whispered stock tips, buried lawsuits, offshore accounts no one admits exist, and prenups so vicious they double as weapons.
In their world, inheritance isn’t a birthright. It’s a blood sport.
Wills are rewritten like war strategies. Heirs are disowned, then reinstated and arranged like chess pieces. Family gatherings probably require legal counsel and a neutral referee.
Plenty of motives. Infinite pressure points. All it would take is pressing the right one just so.
And more recently, of course, there’s Victoria.
Henry Mayfair’s daughter-in-law, Peter’s wife. Found dead in the family home.
The official story? A violent break-in. Middle of the night. Swift and brutal. Every clue conveniently pointing toward some faceless intruder who vanished into the dark.
But here’s the thing about official stories: they’re almost never the real ones.
And I should know—I’ve built my entire career on unraveling those neat little lies.
Another Mayfair turning up dead at the estate less than four years after Henry? Yeah. That sets off more alarms than a breached evidence locker.
First of all—Peter Mayfair died in prison, and I’ve never been more convinced he never should’ve been there in the first place. That whoever killed Henry is still out there.
Second? The Mayfairs have enemies. A lot of them.
You don’t build an empire like theirs—steeped in control, wealth, manipulation—without leaving a trail of burned bridges and people who'd kill for a shot at revenge.
And the family themselves? Not exactly winning popularity contests. Every single one of them has the social warmth of a damp basement.
Well, except for Emily. And her grandmother.
But they are anomalies.
[REDACTED]
[clears throat]
[off-mic conversation — indistinct]
LILA:
