"It's not about who killed. It's about who knew — and stayed silent."
The living room felt colder than before, as if the corpse had left a trail of ice in the air. Marcos remained in the armchair, his coat still damp from the walk through the garden, his eyes scanning the room like someone searching for cracks in an old painting.
Arthur was already there, sprawled on the sofa like part of the furniture. The butler and the maid followed shortly after, their footsteps trying not to make noise—like silence was still a curtain that could hide something.
Marcos turned slowly on his heels, without standing up, and spoke like someone announcing the start of a play.
"Well then. The stage is set. We've got a body, a full house, and a script no one wants to admit they've memorized."
Arthur scoffed, crossing his arms.
"You want us to line up and take numbers? Or do you already have the culprits ranked?"
"Not yet. But I've got the extras. And some are overacting the role of 'innocent.'"
The butler cleared his throat, trying to maintain composure.
"Sir, perhaps it's best to begin with direct questions. Mrs. Beatriz is still shaken…"
"Shaken?" Marcos cut in, his smile dry. "She's locked in a room, chatting with the beyond. If it answers back, then I'll worry."
The maid shrank into herself, eyes lowered, as if trying to disappear into her apron.
Marcos fixed his gaze on her without leaving the armchair.
"You. Name?"
"Clara, sir."
"Clara. Pretty name. Doesn't suit someone living in a house full of shadows."
She swallowed hard.
"I just… do the cleaning. And help in the kitchen."
"And see everything. People like you always see everything. They just don't know they've seen it."
Arthur chuckled softly.
"That was poetic. You gonna start reciting verses now?"
"Only if they rhyme with confession."
Marcos turned to the butler.
"And you? How many years in this house?"
"Thirty-two, sir."
"Long enough to know where the secrets hide when they don't want to be found."
The butler didn't respond. He just looked at the floor, as if more than dust was buried there.
Marcos glanced at the painting above the fireplace—an old portrait of the patriarch, hard eyes, absent smile.
"That one. The old man. Did anyone here actually like him?"
Silence.
Arthur snapped his fingers.
"'Like' is a strong word. 'Tolerate' is more realistic."
"And you tolerated him well?"
"Well enough not to wish him dead. Not well enough to mourn him much."
Marcos nodded, like someone keeping score in a game only he understood.
"Clara, did you see or hear anything strange last night?"
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened around her apron.
"I… heard footsteps. In the hallway. Late at night. But I thought it was Mr. Rubens."
"Rubens. The owner of the car that vanished."
"Yes, sir."
Marcos turned to the butler.
"And you?"
"I was asleep. In the back room."
"Asleep? In a house where silence screams?"
The butler didn't answer.
Marcos crossed his arms and looked at them all.
"All right. We've got a dead man, a missing car, a collapsing family, and a house that seems to hide more than it shows."
He turned his gaze to Arthur.
"One last question—for now. You said you came for the theater. What if I told you the script's already begun, but the ending depends on who stumbles first?"
Arthur smiled, but his eyes didn't follow.
"Then I hope someone stumbles soon. I hate slow endings."
Marcos didn't reply. He simply reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a note, carefully folded. He read it in silence, his eyes tracing the words like listening to an
old whisper.
"Some things don't die. They just change rooms."
He tucked the note away again, stood slowly, and walked to the living room window. The leaves outside were still crushed. Branches broken. Someone had left in a
hurry. Someone who didn't want to be seen.
The phrase echoed like an old whisper. It wasn't about ghosts. It was about secrets that refuse to die—secrets that simply change places, faces, tone.
Beatriz was locked in the guest room. Her daughter, Helena, buried in headphones and denial. Arthur, the nephew, mocking grief like someone who'd already given up
on feeling.
Marcos stood there for a moment, watching the garden, then turned to the butler.
"Go to the guest room. See if she wants to talk. Tell her it's about her son. And that her silence is already answering for her."
The butler hesitated, but left without a word.
Marcos returned to the armchair, eyes fixed on the patriarch's portrait above the fireplace.
Moments later, footsteps echoed in the hallway. The butler reappeared, paler than before.
"Mrs. Beatriz is still locked in. She said she doesn't want to speak to anyone. That her grief doesn't accept visitors."
Marcos looked at him calmly.
"Then let's visit what she doesn't want to remember."
"And her room upstairs?"
"Locked. Since her husband died."
"And no one goes in?"
"No, sir. She said that room died with him."
Marcos walked to the hallway door.
"We're going up. I want to see that room. Even if it's just through the keyhole."
The butler hesitated.
"Sir, she won't allow it."
"She doesn't need to allow it. She just needs not to be there."
The butler swallowed hard but followed.
Marcos cast one last look at the room—the patriarch's portrait still watching him, unmoving as ever—and murmured, "Some things don't die. They just wait for
someone to open the wrong door."
The mansion's second floor seemed to breathe differently. The air was heavier, like the years had stacked up there, untouched. Each step creaked with a weight that
felt like protest.
The butler stopped in front of the patriarch's bedroom. The paint was peeling. The doorknob wore a thin layer of dust.
"Been locked since the funeral," he said, almost in a whisper.
Marcos inspected the keyhole. "Got a key?"
"Not with me."
Marcos reached into his coat and pulled out a small metal case. He opened it slowly, revealing a set of fine tools.
"Always good to have a Plan B," he murmured.
The butler said nothing. Just watched, like someone witnessing an old wound being reopened.
In a few practiced motions, Marcos unlocked the door. It creaked open, slow and reluctant—like waking from a sleep far too long.
The room was untouched. Everything in its place.
Which, for Marcos, was the kind of order that always hides chaos.
The smell was mold, cheap perfume, and repressed memory. The bed was made. The furniture draped in white sheets. On the desk, a framed photo—the patriarch
with his son, still young. Both serious, like the photographer had asked them to smile and they'd refused out of principle.
Marcos approached the bookshelf. Old volumes, some titles worn blank by time. Among them, a newer one—hardcover, free of dust.
He pulled it free. A diary. Not the patriarch's. The son's.
Marcos flipped through carefully. The pages were neat, almost obsessive. Notes about the house, the routine, the mother.
"She doesn't sleep in the upstairs room anymore. Said Father's still there. Said he talks to her. Said the silence answers."
Marcos frowned. Turned more pages.
"Arthur thinks everything's a joke. But he didn't see what I saw. Didn't hear what I heard."
Another page.
"The new maid is scared. And rightly so. This house doesn't like newcomers. It swallows them."
Marcos closed the diary gently. He looked around.
Nothing seemed out of place— But everything was wrong.
He turned to the butler.
"This room's not dead. It's in a coma. And someone here is trying to keep it that way."
The butler didn't respond. Just looked away.
Marcos tucked the diary under his arm.
"Let's go downstairs. The next question's not about who killed— It's about who knew they were going to die."
Back on the ground floor, Marcos reentered the living room with the diary under his arm and eyes sharper than before. Arthur was back on the sofa, as if he'd never
left. Clara stood near the door, staring at nothing. The butler came in last, already wearing the look of someone about to be shot with questions.
Marcos tossed the diary onto the coffee table. The sound was dry.
"Anyone care to explain why the deceased's son was writing like he knew he was going to die?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
"A diary? That's cliché. All we're missing is, 'If you're reading this, then…'"
"He didn't write to be read. He wrote so he wouldn't explode."
Marcos turned to the butler.
"You knew he kept records?"
"No, sir. He was private. Never spoke about anything with me."
"But you were here. Thirty-two years. And saw nothing?"
"I… noticed he got quieter. More tense. But I figured it was work."
"Work? He inherited a mansion and a broken family. What kind of job is that?"
Arthur chuckled low.
"The job of pretending everything's fine. That's what everyone does around here."
Marcos ignored the comment and stepped closer to the butler.
"He wrote about you," Marcos said, voice steady. "Said you know more than you say. That you protect this house like it's yours."
The butler paled.
"I've… always been loyal to the family."
"Maybe too loyal. Loyal enough to hide what shouldn't be hidden."
Clara shifted, nervous. Marcos looked at her.
"And you? He wrote about you too. Said you were afraid. That this house doesn't accept newcomers."
She swallowed hard.
"I… I just thought it was in my head. Noises. Doors that move. Voices…"
Arthur interrupted.
"Voices? Now we're talking. Are we getting a séance in chapter three?"
Marcos turned slowly.
"You talk a lot for someone who claims not to care."
"I care about the show. And this one's getting interesting."
Marcos turned back to the butler.
"Last chance. What do you know that you don't want to say?"
The butler hesitated. Looked at Clara. Looked at Arthur. Then at the diary.
"He… he told me he thought someone was following him. Inside the house. Said he heard footsteps when he was alone. Smelled perfume… even when nobody was
around."
Marcos narrowed his eyes.
"Perfume?"
"Mrs. Beatriz's. But she said she doesn't go upstairs anymore. Said that room is dead."
Marcos turned to Clara.
"Have you seen her go up?"
"No, sir. But… sometimes, the upstairs room… it looks like there's light. Even with the door locked."
Arthur stood up.
"Okay. Now I'm officially uncomfortable. And that's rare."
Marcos picked up the diary from the table.
"Discomfort's good. It means we're getting close."
Marcos looked at them all.
"The patriarch's son is dead. But before that, he wrote about fear. Footsteps. Perfume. Silence. And all of you… are pretending this is just another bad day."
Silence.
Marcos walked to the fireplace, resting the diary on the mantel like a poorly earned war trophy. He spoke without looking at anyone.
"The next question isn't who killed him— It's who knew he was going to die… and let it happen."
He remained there, before the cold hearth, diary perched and eyes unmoving. The room's silence wasn't empty anymore— It was too full. Full of words left unsaid,
glances deflected, and a truth nobody wanted to touch.
Arthur sat back down, this time without irony. Clara stayed standing, as if the floor was the only thing that hadn't lied to her yet. The butler looked smaller now, as if
years of loyalty had finally collapsed under the weight of everything he never said.
Marcos turned slowly, his gaze moving from face to face.
"All right. Act One is over. We've got a corpse, a diary, a house that breathes on its own... And a cast that still hasn't decided if they're performing or confessing."
Arthur folded his arms.
"Do we get an intermission, or is Act Two already starting?"
"It starts the moment someone stops pretending they don't know the script."
Marcos walked to the armchair and sat with the ease of someone who's already seen the ending.
"I want coffee. Strong. No poison this time," he said, without looking at anyone. "I've had enough for today."
Clara left in silence. Her footsteps light, like an apology.
The butler didn't move.
Arthur looked at the diary, then at Marcos.
"And if nobody confesses?"
Marcos smiled—but only with his mouth.
"Then the house will do it for them."
He looked up at the patriarch's portrait above the fireplace—hard eyes, absent smile.
"Because in this house… even the dead have something to say."
The wind hit the window, the curtain shifting like someone had just walked by.
Marcos didn't move.
"And I'll listen. Even if it has to scream."
End of Chapter 2