Chapter 6 - The Broken Alibi
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A quiet murmur ran through the guests as my statement hung in the heavy air of the dining room.
"She's lying! She’s covering her tracks!" Brenda shrieked, though a flicker of panic darted across her eyes.
"Actually, Brenda, she isn't lying," a soft voice spoke up from the middle of the table.
It was Dr. Robert Gable, a retired surgeon and Richard’s lifelong friend, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses.
"I had stepped out into the hallway to take an urgent phone call from my hospital administrator around seven-fifteen," Dr. Gable explained.
"I saw Sarah enter the downstairs powder room, and I saw her come out three minutes later and walk straight into the kitchen to help you with the roast," he stated firmly.
"She never set foot on the staircase, Brenda," Dr. Gable concluded, looking at his hostess with deep disappointment.
Brenda’s face drained of color, her haughty confidence crumbling into desperate confusion.
"Well... well, then someone else must have seen her!" Brenda stammered, looking frantically around the table for an ally.
None of the guests met her eyes; they all looked down at their plates or turned their heads away in acute secondhand embarrassment.
Richard walked slowly around the mahogany table, crunching a tiny piece of broken porcelain beneath his dress shoe.
"If Sarah was downstairs the entire time, who was upstairs?" Richard asked, his voice low and menacing.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the hum of the central heating system.
Richard’s sharp, trained eyes swept across the room, cataloging every micro-expression and shifting posture.
His gaze bypassed the wealthy couples, bypassed his son, and locked onto the far corner of the dining room.
Sitting at the corner of the side table was Trevor, Brenda’s twenty-two-year-old nephew.
Trevor was hunched over his plate, furiously tapping on the screen of his smartphone, his legs bouncing uncontrollably beneath the table.
Beads of sweat had formed along Trevor’s hairline, glistening brightly under the chandelier.
"Trevor," Richard said, his tone flat and chillingly calm.
Trevor jumped violently at the sound of his name, nearly dropping his expensive iPhone into his gravy.
"Y-yes, Uncle Richard?" Trevor stuttered, his voice pitching higher than normal.
"You left the dining table right after the appetizers were cleared, didn't you?" Richard asked, taking two measured steps toward him.
"I... I just had to step outside to get some fresh air!" Trevor stammered, pulling at his tight collar with trembling fingers.
"You didn't go outside, Trevor," Mark intervened, his eyes darkening as pieces of the puzzle began falling into place.
"I went to the back patio to check the smoker twenty minutes ago, and the sliding door was locked from the inside," Mark stated coldly.
"You went upstairs, didn't you, Trevor?" Mark asked, stepping directly in front of his cousin.
Brenda rushed forward, throwing her arms out to shield Trevor like a mother hen protecting a chick.
"Leave him alone! Trevor is a sweet, innocent boy!" Brenda screamed hysterically.
"He’s studying for his pre-law exams! How dare you interrogate him like a criminal in my house!" she cried.
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Richard didn't even look at Brenda as he raised a single finger, silencing her with an authority that brooked no argument.
"Trevor," Richard repeated, his voice carrying the weight of a court-martial. "Stand up and empty your pockets."
