Still Judged

 still judged by my illnesses then just being me

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Murder Mystery: Don’t Talk About Love

  1. The Arrival The autumn wind howled through the bare oaks that lined the lane to Whitaker House, rattling the shutters as if they were trying to warn anyone who dared approach. Detective Vera Hart pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, the scent of damp leaves mixing with the faint, metallic tang of rain that lingered on the stone pathway. A black sedan waited at the gate, its engine ticking down like a restless heart. From the driver’s side, a middle‑aged man with silvered hair and a crisp navy suit stepped out, his eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses despite the gloom. He was the only person Vera had ever heard referred to as “the caretaker” of the Whitaker Estate. “Detective Hart,” he said, voice low, “I’m Malcolm, the house manager. Thank you for coming so quickly.” Vera nodded, stepping onto the porch. The front door was ajar, a thin sliver of darkness spilling into the foyer. The air inside was heavy with the perfume of wilting lilies and something else—an old...
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