Present Day:
“Miss Calder. Could you please explain how you solved Revera Stanz’s case. It was impossible for many detective branches, and you were only 15 then.”
“But I’m a teacher now.”
“A detective school teacher and this will help us too. Please Miss Calder.”
“Okay now.”

7 Years ago:
Here I am. Fifteen-year-old me doing the work of the detective department. Again. It’s ridiculous, honestly grown adults with badges and decades of experience stepping aside so a teenager can poke around a crime scene. But I’m not complaining. I love my job. I love the quiet hum of mystery, the way clues whisper instead of shout. And this studio… it’s whispering a lot.
The room is too clean. Not artist-clean—Revera Sanz was famously chaotic, a man who lived in a storm of brushes, palettes, and half-finished canvases. No, this is the kind of clean that feels curated. Sterile. Like someone wiped away the truth and left only the parts they wanted us to see.
The police took ages to unlock the door, fumbling with keys and muttering about how “these old mountain locks are tricky.” That alone ticks off forced entry. Whoever came in… Revera let them.
I step inside, my boots sinking slightly into the thick woven rug. The air is cold, mountain-cold, the kind that bites your nose and makes every breath feel sharp. Revera lies on the floor, one hand stretched toward his easel as if reaching for salvation. Or warning. His fingers are stiff, frozen mid-desperation.
The easel holds his final painting.
A hooded figure. Face swallowed by shadow. Blues and greys layered so delicately they look like smoke drifting across the canvas. The signature at the bottom is smeared—dragged sideways, as if Revera tried to change it with trembling hands.
But the strangest part?
His fingerprints are on the back of the canvas.
As if he turned it around during the attack. As if he wanted someone—me, apparently—to see something on the other side.
I crouch, ignoring the murmuring officers behind me. The back of the canvas is blank except for the fingerprints. No message. No hidden sketch. Just the prints, placed deliberately. Revera wasn’t panicking. He was communicating.
I scan the room.
A torn sketch sits half-hidden in his desk drawer. The hooded figure again—but without the hood. The face is unfinished, only the outline of a jaw, a cheekbone, a single eye. The eye is sharp, almost accusing.
A hidden camera lies smashed near the window. Someone didn’t want their visit recorded.
A receipt for a train ticket purchased under Revera’s name rests beneath a stack of unopened mail. But Revera never left town. He hated trains. Said they rattled his bones.
A faint second signature hides beneath the smeared one on the painting—barely visible unless you tilt your head and squint. Two names. Two identities. Or one truth buried under another.
And then there’s the drop of red paint on Revera’s shirt. Just one. Bright as blood, but not blood. The hooded portrait uses only blues and greys. No red anywhere.
Someone brought that colour with them.
Someone close enough to touch him.
I stand, brushing dust from my knees. Three suspects. Three stories. Three lies waiting to be peeled apart.
Nico Vale, the prodigy with paint-stained hands and a too-eager alibi.
Lady Corvina, the patron whose fury could melt steel.
Elara Sanz, the estranged daughter with two years of silence between her and her father.
I take a breath, steadying myself. Time to start.
The interrogation room is small, dim, and humming with tension. The first suspect sits across from me, shifting nervously, eyes darting to the door as if hoping someone—anyone—else will walk in and take my place.
I pull out my notebook, flip to a clean page, and meet their gaze.
“Let’s begin.”