Watching the back of my roommate, Yora, I recounted his last conversation with Alexander. The blue-eyed heir addressed him with the utmost politeness, even more than he had for his own cousin. Yora must have been a big deal to Westley, because Bell had also addressed him formally.

Seeing the two families get along so well was confusing. I had never seen two people with such great power actually work willingly with one another, and so amiably too.

“You must keep your ear out for any other messages from that professor.” Alexander had whispered to Yora. I had been standing next to him, barely able to hear a word.

Yora had replied with a lazy smile, eyes narrowed and mischievous, “I believe he is called . . . Professor Cross, yes?”

“Whatever the case, if he is powerful enough to keep a group of grown adults captive in a massive manor, then we can’t easily play with him. For now, at least.” He added that last bit with less vigor. Still, his authoritative energy didn’t cease. “We’ll gather tonight, with everyone. To discuss our next move.”

The amusement in the eyes of my roommate was as clear as day. He really wasn’t acting like he was taking this seriously. But I knew he was, just by the fact that he had lied for me. “I think we have more pressing matters to worry about, though.”

The last thing Alexander had said to him was what perplexed me the most. “Be careful with those cigarettes, Yora.” He patted the taller man’s shoulder as he walked off with Bell. “I don't want to lose you, too.”

Alexander could’ve been referring to his father, or his mother, or anyone else. Though, Yora’s eyes gave it away. There was anger, pain, and sadness in them. The first glimpse of real, genuine feelings that I’d seen in him, in those short minutes when we’d first met.

Now he was tense. I could see it in his back, and in his fisted gloved hands. He had put on his smog mask as we went on our way, so it was hard for me to read his face. There was no way for me to fully see him.

There was another thing that struck me as very odd, too. The words that Alexander had said to Yora not long ago—about the fact that this person, or people, were capable of holding grown adults in a large manor house, successfully.

I assumed the only reason for that particular triumph was because the culprit knew the house just as much as any family member of Westley or Modiano would. It had to be one of the men trapped in the house along with us.

Who could it have been, though?

Yora paused his steps when we arrived at a dead end, in some corner tucked away into the very last hallway of the manor. I could tell because the small, circular window facing us looked out into the grounds, though only barely. It was too dusty to look through. Yet another sign that the staff was long gone. The only living souls were the other men and the so-called professor.

Viewing me carefully, he let me into his room by bringing out a key from within his waistcoat pocket, unlocking the door gingerly, still with his gloved fingers.

As soon as the door swung open with a loud creak, he waved his hand to the inside, guiding me in. It honestly felt like I wasn’t fully able to step in, not with how pristine it was.

It took me by surprise, truthfully. The state of the bedroom was like that of a disinfected hospital. Neat, tidy, and it smelled like some sort of perfume—oh, and that similar scent as well . . . the burnt flowers.

I knew now that Yora was a part of the Modiano family, therefore he must’ve carried, or at least used the product. I hadn’t known exactly what his preference was, until I eyed a silver dish sitting on what I presumed was his nightstand.

Atop, ruining the silver shine of the antique dish, were ashy traces of burnt cigarettes.

As I drew further into the room, luggage still firm in my hands, I couldn’t take my eyes away from those grey ashes . . .

Those cigarettes were different than the ones I usually saw.

They were . . . pink. They weren’t white.

“Welcome to the safest place in the house.” Yora said, half muffled as he removed his mask. It seemed he felt more comfortable being in the room, though not entirely. I was still in there with him.

I tried not to give away the fact that I’d been staring at what I assumed were Modiano cigarettes. I could never afford them, and I had never been able to see them up close before.

They were usually made of the finest ingredients, which could explain the unique, floral scent that Yora gave off. Bell didn’t smell like that. Neither did Alexander.

I cleared my throat. “We’ll see about that.”

Yora shut the door behind him, and tugged on his mask, to catch his breath. It probably took a toll on him, wearing that constantly on his face.

It wasn’t something that I was familiar with. I wasn’t wholly aware of why he wore it, or what his reasons were—he was a suspect, but I still had to have some sense of respect for his personal space.

Which reminded me . . .

I’d followed this stranger to his bedroom because he had saved me, kind of. He had prevented my true identity from being revealed, even though he didn’t actually know who I was. And for what? What did he want?

My impatience throughout our journey to the bedroom was finally at its limit. “You say it is the safest place, so you must think I have the ability to trust you easily.” His eyes shot up to mine when I’d said that. He too, presumably, had known I’d ask him. “Why did you cover for me?”

Standing at the doorway, Yora placed the keys on the nearest table, where a row of flowers, of different varieties, were nestled in mismatched glass pots of varying sizes. They were most likely the only fresh flowers in the whole house.

“You’re questioning me like a detective, John.” I still couldn’t get used to him saying my name.

And the fact that he’d mentioned me being a detective—I already guessed he was a very quick thinker, considering what he had done for me back there with Alexander, but this was a sort of quickness that had me feeling scared for my efforts. Concealing my identity around him would be fruitless at one point, if he kept up with this.

I put my luggage down on what I thought would be my side of the bed. The silver tray was opposite from me, farther from where I was. “Am I?” I muttered.

The four poster bed was large enough to fit two grown adults, with a velvet canopy that encased the entire thing, to prevent the sunlight from leaking harshly down from the tall windows above us on our right, where my side was.

Dark, and made of the finest oak, the room was a perfect square, with us in the middle, and with wardrobes, a writing desk, and tables that encircled us with fine antique items. Even a fireplace sat in front of the bed, though it hadn’t looked like it’d been lit in a while.

The bathroom door, which I could see from the other side of our bed, was ajar enough that I could spot the green tiled walls and floor, dimly lit by a flickering candle that sat against multiple mirrors, so it almost appeared as if there were hundreds inside.

It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t cozy. This wasn’t my house anyway. This was his.

And yes, I had been undercover before, though this was on a whole other level and scale. By far, the manor was the biggest place I ever had to stay in.

Pressing my hand into the sheets of the bed, Yora abandoned his spot near the door to get to the windows. He noticed that I was taking in my surroundings. By now, he must’ve seen me eyeing the cigarettes. “If you are a detective, then you’ve probably deduced that I won’t lay a hand on you.” He stated.

With one swift motion, he opened one window, and then the next, so that all three could invite in a gust of ocean air into the room, which nearly got rid of the rich, flowery scent I’d been inhaling for quite a while.

One look and it’d appear that he was being polite by getting rid of the strong cigarette smell, but I didn’t really think of it that way. I didn’t know what to think.

I stepped beside him, but I’d forgotten about the distance he put between us, and was bewildered when he took a stride away from me, to keep us at arm’s-length.

When he was far enough away from me, he continued speaking as I stared below at the foggy grounds through those windows. I had to stand on my tiptoes to get a better look at everything. “It’s also clear, Mr. Detective, that you also want to know more than what I’ve already told you. But it should be easy enough figuring out the answers to your own questions by simply observing us.” When he told me that, he did the opposite of his own suggestion and disappeared from my sight.

I had to turn to see that he had only bent low to reach into a nearby wardrobe, to retrieve a suit—no, a uniform.

I was too distracted by the fact that he had called me ‘Mr. Detective’. “Excuse me?”

“Your uniform.” He said, and then changed his mind. “Actually, it belongs to Riley, but since you’ve come to replace him, it officially belongs to you now.”

Astonished, I made a face at the uniform in his gloved hands. Repeating again what I’d said seconds ago, the volume in my voice rose, “ . . . excuse me?”

“You don’t think the professor will mind if you wear one of your own suits?” Yora said.

It was hard for me to admit it, but he was right.

I couldn’t get away with playing this game without the proper uniform.

Holding back a curse, I took the garments from him, and confirmed that they were definitely old. I could’ve asked Yora if they were the same ones used in the school, but I didn’t want to.

He studied my reaction. “Do you really want to know why I covered for you?”

“Yes.” I answered immediately.

“If you form an alliance with me, then I will gladly tell you.”

I was about to decline, though after a second of contemplation, there was a part of me that figured it wouldn’t be bad to consider it. Of course I wouldn’t trust him. I’d only use the alliance to gain insight on how to run away.

But first, I had to consider another question—

Why did he want to form an alliance with me?

“Why?” I shook my head in confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

It was then that he did something I had not expected . . . again.

Yora raised his hand in front of us, so that I could see it. I looked from his face to his glove, once, and then twice, questioning his actions silently. What was he doing? He was observing me, like a doctor would.

When he showed me three fingers, he asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

I blinked.

What is . . .

“Huh?” I prevented from pushing his hand away.

“Just tell me, please.” He said, relaxed.

I exhaled. I had no time for his unusual demands. “Three.”

He nodded, “Okay.” Jutting a thumb at the door, he asked, “Can you tell me how many men we encountered in the foyer?”

“Two, including you.” I figured this was a part of the reason why he wore those gloves and masks, so I went along with it.

There was so much to take in, with the manor, the murder, the suspects—but it was starting to feel like the biggest piece to the puzzle would be Yora.

“Do you remember the names that you heard?” He said.

I scoffed, “Of course I do.” I was good with names, more so than most people. They stuck with me easily, and I could normally connect a name with a face within mere seconds. It was an advantage for me, especially in my career. “It’s the only thing I’m really good at.”

“Then tell me.”

“Yora Linda.” I said his full name. I could tell his reaction had been like mine when he’d said my name for the first time, but he carried on normally when I went on, “Alexander Westley, Professor Cross, Christopher, Lynn, Charlotte—” I faltered.

Ah . . . I guess I had forgotten.

The expression on Yora’s face grew into one that showed concern.

I tried to remember the first guest I had met. The young man, Charlotte, had told me to use his last name when I addressed him. I’d called him by that forgotten name the entire time we’d been together. It also hadn’t been a difficult one to recall.

Strangely, the room grew quieter, more quiet than previously, like the wind had stopped for us. “C-Charlotte—” I said, “His name was Charlotte . . . and his last name was . . .”

Yora raised his fingers up for the second time, “How many fingers are there now, John?”

“Four.”

I wasn’t dizzy. He was only making a big deal out of my forgetfulness for this name. I was probably exhausted. My anxiety had taken a toll on me mentally and physically. It was a normal response to the events that’d transpired.

He didn’t look convinced, though. “We’ll keep the windows open. All night.”

“But it’s cold.” I argued.

“The fire.” He referred to the fireplace. “I’ll keep it on.”

Puzzled, I stopped him, “Yora.”

My roommate waited to hear what I had to say.

“I’m fine.” Well, as fine as one would be in our situation. “It’s only a name.”

Uncertainty graced his features. I could see that there was more to his actions than what I was assuming. He was hiding something, something really deep and terrifying, but he would not tell me.

After a long time in silence, he finally closed our distance. It was the closest he had been near me, a hair’s breadth away. It was at this time that I could see the light from those windows reflected in his eyes.

They were really green.

“His name is Bell, John.” Yora said, in that low tone he was capable of.

Bell—

Really?

“Was that his name?” It couldn’t have been.

This time it was Yora who shook his head at me, “Yes. Yes, it’s his name.” He looked away, face unreadable.

I half-pouted, upset with the constant questions. I was aware that he would have many, though not as much as me. I definitely had more. I had no idea who anyone was, or how to deal with them. It was infuriating.

“Well, I’m sorry I forgot.” I said, more to Charlotte.

Yora replied, “No, I’m—” He didn’t finish. An apology was at the edge of his lips, but it never left.

It was perplexing because he hadn’t needed to apologize for my own mistake. Unless . . . he was apologizing for something else related to it.

I didn’t ask him about it. I didn’t want to try.

He had already started calling me a detective, so it was hard to pester him with questions without giving myself away little by little.

These men, apparently, would all be clever in their own ways. Yora, so far, proved to be the most tricky yet.

But I had to carry on and lie. I had to.

Otherwise . . .

Yora and I exchanged looks for one last time. I could almost see our breaths now, mingling, due to the cold from outside gradually coming in from the opened windows.

When we broke eye contact, he left me. I remained, eyeing the ground angrily. Confused, bitter, tired—all of this and more, it wasn’t healthy.

Despite this, I had to do my best, for the sake of my sanity.

I was already forgetting small things like names, as well as how I got there. It was worrying. Even one of the suspects was concerned for my well-being.

Placing a finger to my temple, I closed my eyes and sighed, “Fuck.”

This was dangerous because I wasn’t usually so fragile. I was shaken up, to the core, and so was everyone else, apparently.

I had to stay alert, focused . . . or else . . .

I would never escape.