The Crimson Letter
December 4, 2024
The scent of iron hung heavy in the air as Detective Isla Vance stepped into the dimly lit study. A single desk lamp cast a weak glow on the chaos: overturned bookshelves, shattered glass, and the lifeless body of Victor Calloway slumped over his desk. His white shirt was stained crimson, the result of a single gunshot to the chest.
“Robbery?” her partner, Detective Marco Reyes, asked, glancing at the broken window.
“Doubtful,” Isla replied, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “The desk drawers are untouched. This was personal.”
Her gaze landed on an envelope, stark white against the bloodied desk. It was addressed to Victor in looping, elegant handwriting.
“Found our first clue,” Isla said, slipping on gloves and picking up the letter. She unfolded it carefully and read aloud:
**Victor,
You can’t run forever. You owe me, and I always collect.
- C**
Marco whistled low. “Sounds like someone wasn’t here for tea and cookies.”
The Calloway estate was vast, and Isla and Marco quickly assembled the household staff for questioning. The butler, the maid, and Victor’s younger sister, Lila, were all visibly shaken.
“Where were you around 10 p.m.?” Isla asked Lila, who sat clutching a blanket.
“I was in my room,” she whispered. “I didn’t hear anything until Mrs. Donovan screamed.”
The maid, Mrs. Donovan, nodded tearfully. “I found him just after 10. The window was broken, so I thought it was a burglar.”
“And the butler?” Isla asked.
James, the butler, adjusted his tie nervously. “I was in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I swear, I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Convenient,” Marco muttered under his breath.
Later, Isla stood in Victor’s study, reviewing the letter again. The elegant script nagged at her. It was too deliberate, too precise, to be a simple threat.
“Marco, run this through handwriting analysis,” she said.
“On it,” he replied, taking the letter.
Meanwhile, Isla examined the desk more closely. Her fingers brushed against a hidden latch underneath. With a soft click, a concealed drawer slid open, revealing a ledger filled with names, dates, and large sums of money.
“Looks like Victor was keeping secrets,” Isla muttered.
Hours later, Marco returned with the handwriting analysis. “Guess who matches the letter?” he said, holding up the report.
“Don’t make me guess, Reyes.”
“Lila Calloway,” he said, his expression grim.
Isla frowned. “His own sister?”
“Looks that way. And get this—the ledger? Victor was laundering money through his businesses. Half of it ties back to Lila’s account.”
Confronting Lila was almost too easy. She was seated in the parlor, her calm demeanor at odds with the storm brewing around her.
“You wrote the letter,” Isla said, tossing it on the coffee table. “Care to explain why?”
Lila’s expression didn’t waver. “Victor was bleeding the family dry. I begged him to stop, but he didn’t care. I wanted him to know I wouldn’t let it go.”
“And the gunshot?” Marco pressed. “You went a little beyond ‘not letting it go.’”
“I didn’t shoot him!” Lila snapped, her composure cracking. “I wrote the letter to scare him, that’s all. Someone else must have—”
Before she could finish, James entered the room, his face ashen.
“It’s over, James,” Isla said, her voice steady. “Your prints are all over the gun. We found it in the kitchen trash.”
James’s shoulders slumped. “I loved this family,” he said quietly. “But Victor? He was ruining everything. I thought if he were gone, things could go back to the way they were.”
Lila’s gasp filled the room as James was cuffed.
As he was led away, Isla glanced at Lila. “Your letter might’ve been a threat, but it set things in motion.”
Lila looked away, her face pale. The Calloway family was broken, and no amount of money could piece it back together.