The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and coffee, a morning ritual Evelyn Harper clung to like a lifeline. Sunlight slanted through the window of their Asheville bungalow, catching the steam rising from her mug. She leaned against the counter, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun, her sharp green eyes scanning the newspaper. At thirty-seven, Evie—as her family called her—had a face that could turn heads, though she rarely noticed. Today, her beauty was softened by the cozy chaos of home: a half-eaten pancake on the table, her son's sneakers by the door, and the faint hum of her husband's voice from the next room.
"Mom, you're gonna burn a hole through that paper," Lucas said, slouching into a chair. At sixteen, he was all limbs and curiosity, his brown eyes—Nathan's eyes—glinting with mischief. He grabbed a pancake and tore into it, crumbs scattering.
"Habit," Evie said, smirking. "Keeps my brain sharp."
"Sharp enough to crack that jewelry heist last month," Lucas said, grinning. "Dad's still talking about how you figured out the getaway car from a smudge on a wineglass."
She waved a hand, dismissive but pleased. Her deductive skills were her pride, honed over a decade of unraveling mysteries—missing heirlooms, corporate fraud, the occasional murder. Combat wasn't her strength; she left that to her assistant, Riley. Evie's weapons were her mind and her knack for seeing what others missed. Criminals underestimated her, and she used that.
Nathan wandered in, tie loosened, his laptop bag slung over one shoulder. His MNC job kept him tethered to conference calls, but he always made time for mornings like this. "Luke's right," he said, kissing Evie's temple. "That smudge story's legendary. Got another case brewing?"
"Not yet," she said, folding the paper. "Though I wouldn't mind a quiet week."
The doorbell chimed, sharp and unexpected. Lucas hopped up, returning with a cream-colored envelope, its wax seal embossed with a crest Evie hadn't seen in years. Her stomach tightened. She took it, her fingers tracing the intricate design—a stag beneath a crown.
"Fancy," Lucas said, peering over her shoulder. "Who's it from?"
"An old friend," Evie murmured, breaking the seal. The letter was handwritten, the script elegant but urgent:
Dear Evie,
I need your help. Something's wrong at Shadowridge Manor. People are dying—murders, not accidents—and the truth is being buried. I can't trust anyone here. Please come. I know it's far, but you're the only one I believe can uncover what's happening. I've enclosed directions. Hurry.
Yours,
Clara
Clara Wentworth. They'd met at UNC, two scholarship kids bonding over late-night coffee and shared dreams. Clara's family, the Wentworths, were American royalty of sorts—old money tied to a lineage that stretched back to colonial times. Shadowridge Manor, their ancestral home in Boone, was a legend in itself, a sprawling estate nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, 200 miles from Asheville. Evie hadn't seen Clara in a decade, not since her friend had retreated into the family's secretive world.
"Boone?" Nathan said, reading over her shoulder. "That's a trek. What's this about murders?"
"She doesn't say much," Evie said, folding the letter. "But Clara's not one for dramatics. If she's scared, it's real."
Lucas leaned forward, eyes wide. "You're going, right? Sounds like a conspiracy. Creepy old manor, dead bodies—come on, Mom."
Evie shot him a look, but her mind was already turning. Serial murders in a village near a royal estate? A conspiracy the Wentworths couldn't—or wouldn't—solve? Her pulse quickened, the familiar itch of a puzzle taking hold.
"Nate?" she asked, meeting her husband's gaze.
He sighed, but his smile was warm. "You'll be insufferable if you don't go. Just promise you'll call Riley. If it's as bad as Clara says, you'll need backup."
She nodded, grateful. Nathan never minded her detective work; he and Lucas thrived on her stories, the wilder the better. But this felt different. Clara's words—I can't trust anyone—echoed, heavy with dread.
By noon, Evie was on the phone with Riley Kane, her assistant. At twenty-nine, Riley was a study in contrasts: sharp deductive skills paired with a boxer's build and a unsettling ease with knives. They'd worked together for three years, their dynamic seamless—Evie's brain, Riley's brawn.
"Murders in Boone?" Riley's voice crackled through the speaker. "Sounds like a party. I'm in. Meet you at the office in an hour?"
"Pack for a few days," Evie said. "And bring your gear. We don't know what we're walking into."
She hung up, staring at the letter on the counter. Shadowridge Manor loomed in her mind, its stone walls hiding secrets she was destined to uncover. The village murders, Clara's fear, the Wentworths' silence—it all pointed to something deeper, something sinister. Evie Harper wasn't just a detective; she was a hunter of truths, and whatever darkness waited in Boone, she'd face it her way.
As she packed a bag, Lucas appeared in the doorway, holding her scarf. "Be careful, Mom. And, y'know, tell us everything when you get back."
She smiled, ruffling his hair. "Deal."
The Blue Ridge Mountains awaited, and with them, a mystery that would test every ounce of her skill. Evie stepped out into the crisp Asheville air, the letter tucked in her pocket, and drove toward the unknown.