The flash of crimson on what should be perfectly clean silver. The dinner knife sat to the right of the plate straight and polished. The red stain down the the hilt now dripping on the white tablecloth was far too out of place. I pale, my hand now shaking I reach for the knife, dragging my finger across the red in a spear to gage the texture. It felt like what it looked like… blood. The table was set, everything perfect and gleaming. The white plates on the white tablecloth, the silverware clean and bright, all but… the knife. I glance left to the open hallway leading to the kitchens.

“Miss Marybeth, which of the guests have arrived?” My voice echoes. No response forthcoming.