第2章 Chapter 2: The Guests

The car from Ravenswick Station was a black Bentley driven by a man who never turned around. Rain hammered the windows as we wound through lanes so narrow the hedgerows scraped the doors. When Ashworth Manor finally materialized through the downpour, it looked exactly as I'd imagined: a Gothic monument to old money and older secrets, its turrets clawing at a bruised sky.

Five others had already arrived. I studied them over pre-dinner drinks in the library, cataloging micro-expressions the way I'd been trained.

**Marcus Webb**, 44, investment banker. Expensive watch, cheap smile. His eyes darted to the door every thirty seconds—a man expecting trouble.

**Sofia Castellano**, 38, art dealer. She held her wine glass like a weapon, her knuckles white. She'd been crying recently; the concealer couldn't quite hide the redness.

**Dr. Thomas Chen**, 61, retired surgeon. Calm hands, but a tremor in his left eyelid. Medication, or guilt?

**Harriet Blackwood**, 29, journalist. Notebook already out, pen moving. She wasn't here for the money—she was here for a story.

**Victor Okafor**, 52, former diplomat. The only one who seemed genuinely relaxed. But I'd spent my career studying psychopaths, and I knew that perfect calm was often the most dangerous mask of all.

The solicitor, Whitmore, was a wisp of a man who materialized at exactly six o'clock. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "I regret to inform you that the bridge has flooded. No one will be leaving until Monday morning."

Nobody seemed surprised. Which meant either they'd all expected it—or they'd all been warned.