John

I pointed my fork at Yora, correcting him after he had finished telling me that he hadn’t believed it wouldn’t take Cig long to reach the dining room. How else would he keep me away? He’d used his friend, who clearly had very bad eyesight, to escort me through the darkness—there had been no way for either of us to get to Yora in a timely manner.

Childhood friend or not, Cig hadn’t managed to get me back to Yora quickly, despite him knowing the layout of Westley Manor well. It reminded me that most of the family probably hadn’t resided in the manor their entire lives. The house mostly felt like some sacred home, a place they could return to when the family needed to be called together.

I was getting a taste of that, but I suspected I was unluckily experiencing it at the worst possible time.

Bringing my fork back, I stuck the utensil in a small block of yellow cheese. A charcuterie board was set on the table, separating Yora and I. I’d chosen to sit at the small dining table in the kitchen, so that I would not have to imagine the family drama that must’ve ensued in the other room.

Cig had left as soon as he’d noticed that the men had finished their meeting, but not before sending me an encouraging goodbye wave when he noticed that I would be left alone with Yora again. He knew I had lingering doubts about my roommate.

Still, behind that uncertainty of mine, I was convinced he would be the best person to help me uncover the mystery. He was a member of the Modiano family, a close friend to Alexander Westley, and a prolific chemist. I was aware the other men were just as capable, though something about Yora had me thinking that he actually liked the idea of detective work. He’d deduced quite enough about me, to the point where I had to commend him for it.

Though, the one thing I could not praise him for was his slyness. I hadn’t gotten the chance to meet anyone else, and even when I accused Yora of keeping them away from me, he’d denied it.

And so that was why I was there in the first place, with no one other than my own roommate once more.

My eyes landed on the pile of cleaned dishes near the sink. The food that they'd made had all been eaten, apparently. Thankfully, Yora had saved some for Cig and I.

“I would tell you the whereabouts of my family during the time of the murder, but I highly doubt you’d believe anything from me.” He said, chin set perfectly atop his hands, fingers entwined, covered in leather. He’d lowered his smog mask when we sat, which meant that this had been the best lighting that I’d seen him in, beneath the dingy light fixture above that lit only the table where we were.

I took this opportunity to take in every detail of his face. “I’m very fond of receiving answers from people directly,” I remarked. He smiled at my irritated tone. “But I will take your word that Jack Ledders is alive and well.”

He raised a brow, “Oh?”

With the fork I’d been using, I used the utensil to guide his eyes in the direction of the cleaned plates. Of the sixteen, fourteen had been cleaned, meanwhile the other two, which I concluded had originally been for Cig and I, had been left untouched.

Biting the cheese, I answered, “Unless you had a phantom fourteenth member at your meeting, then . . .”

“Jack will meet you sooner or later, I promise.” He told me.

“Promise or not, I’ll find him.” I said, determined.

He did not argue with me on that. “I know.”

I hadn’t meant to bring up the subject of phantoms. I presumed it’d slipped because of my conversation with Cig, in regards to that great uncle.

Yora would’ve definitely known about the incident. Looking at him now, at the way he examined me just as intently as I was doing so towards him, I wanted to know if he was thinking of that man as well.

Perhaps bringing up past family trauma was a bad idea. But in reality, so many unconventional things were happening, and they were still continuing to happen, therefore it wouldn’t hurt to mention it.

Setting my fork down, I intended to do just that, though I faltered.

“You have something that you’d like to say,” Yora guessed.

“When did you all receive those letters?” I asked. In place of a ghost story, I chose to focus on reality.

Bell had mentioned that he’d arrived a week late, while Mrs. Ledders had said something along the lines of her son, Jack, being missing for a week too. With so many relatives coming from all over the world, as well as relatives in the nearby area, it would’ve been no surprise to see guests of this party coming in very early or very late.

The murderer could’ve sent those letters out weeks ago, but I had no certain way of knowing unless I asked the family.

Thus, Yora would be the first person I could officially question.

“I believe I received mine on September 1st.” He revealed, folding his hands on his lap. “I was out of town, so I made sure to leave early. I didn't want to miss the date.”

That did sound like what I’d presumed. “What were you doing around the time of the murder?”

He exhaled, “I was probably in my lab, working on something.”

“Where?”

“Italy.” He said, “Trieste, if you need an exact location. That’s where my father's family is originally from. My mother is from Russia, though she relocated recently with my sister.”

I couldn’t help it. The goosebumps that rose beneath my uniform jacket had been caused by the subtle mentions of his personal life. With every word he told me, I could slowly believe that he really was one of the legitimate heirs of Modiano.

Unlike the Westley family, whose history and images had covered the original Modiano mansion, Yora’s actual bloodline was still such a mystery.

Shifting in my seat, to expel the goosebumps, I replied, “So you’ve been here for—”

“Two and a half weeks.” He said, not letting me finish. This time it was his turn to sound irritated.

I could not blame him.

“Your family slowly trickled in.” I thought aloud. “But the professor had only given direct orders when Bell and I became trapped along with you all.”

Yora shook his head, “The professor . . .” In that exasperated tone, he half-turned from me, letting the other side of his face hide away in the shadow. 

“Has this professor done anything else to you?” I said quietly.

He got the gist that I was concerned. “He has not made a physical appearance, and nor have those keepers at the gate shown their presence in a violent manner.” Yora brought himself back into the light. “We were only told to wait for the rest of the students to arrive . . . but when my family came in one by one, they—” The man sighed, “We tried to escape, on multiple occasions.”

“And what did they do during that, then?” I asked.

“They’ve only threatened us with words. Words that did not hurt me very much.” He seemed to gain satisfaction from that. “Though . . . Alexander had attempted to deal with the professor, but—”

“Nothing worked.” I figured.

They were still there, trapped, along with me.

To be held captive in such a grand home, with little to no lighting, and with voices in the walls whispering uncertain words to you . . .

“When the professor told us that two more guests would be arriving, a uniform had been left at my doorstep on the very next day.” It was his turn to point his finger at me. “The one you are wearing.”

I observed my attire, and then studied his.

The professor had been making those men aware that more and more people were to arrive at the manor, by leaving fresh uniforms for new students.

“But the professor is not the murderer.” I said.

He nodded, “Doesn’t it sound like he’s enjoying his role as a game master? That should be enough to satisfy him, for now.”

If the professor was not the murderer, then he must’ve been a stranger hired by the actual murderer. That explained why Alexander, Yora, and Bell hadn’t recognized the voice. It was almost likely that no one knew the identity of the professor, unless they were the actual culprit. I had to make it a point to ask the other guests.

“Then, this murderer has planned this for a while.” I assumed. “Ever since George Westley died.”

“Perhaps even on the day of his death.” Yora replied. “July 1st.”

Two months to prepare a complex scheme. Two months to entrap 16 grown men in their elegant home. It literally could’ve been anyone.

Yora had read that conclusion on my face. He had been staring at me for a while, like he was ready to tell me something too, but was withholding it.

“You all know more than me,” I stated. “But it feels like you want me, an outsider, to gather all of your puzzle pieces and figure out what picture I’ll build from them.”

“We know too much about ourselves . . . so much that we don’t know very much about each other.” Yora told me. “There are secrets in this family that even I don’t understand. Secrets that I am willing to uncover and tell you, because you have nothing to gain from them if you fail or succeed.”

I raised a brow at him, “How do you know?”

“No one will ever believe that this happened.” He said. He was correct. “There are things that you will never believe either, John.”

When he said my name, I could tell that he had been almost close to revealing what he’d been bottling up. I just wanted him to come outright and say it.

But a part of me also knew that I didn’t need his words to figure out just what he wanted to tell me.

I took a breath, and again was engulfed in a wave of that flowery scent. It was not unpleasant, not like typical cigarette smoke. “Tell me the greatest secret.” I challenged.

With a short tilt of his head, he challenged me back, “Can you really handle the ultimate secret of these families?”

I did nothing but stare patiently at him, waiting for him to give me what I wanted.

We stayed like that for as long as we could, silently analyzing one another, to deem whether there was enough trust to continue.

Yora surprised me by standing up. I stayed where I sat, until he invited me to rise, “If you are willing, John, I will show you a few before I can tell you the greatest one.”

Behind him, through the windows above the stoves and ovens, silent lightning flashed. It’d stopped raining for the moment, but the clouds were relentless. They rolled across the night sky, grey, and very bleak, just as Yora had said.

I pushed myself from the table, feeling more alert than tired, even with a full stomach. I’d gotten enough sleep to take his offer. My mind was too preoccupied with possibilities anyway.

When I stood in front of him, I couldn’t hold myself back from sharing that secret I’d learned recently. We'd have many opportunities to talk, but this precious time alone was valuable. “First . . . your great uncle.”

Yora put his hands on the table, bringing himself forward to watch me, “The Grainer?”

Another flash of lightning blinded me for a second. “Yes.”

“Cig told you, didn’t he?” Yora actually gave a small laugh, it was half-hidden by his mask that’d been lowered earlier. “There are some inconsistencies to his version.”

“How so?”

“It is only a rumor that he killed 16 people.” He said, “But it is definitely true that he murdered his own sister.” Yora thought to himself, and then let out another laugh. “He must’ve been close to killing George Westley, too. It might’ve even been his main intent, though of course we will never know.”

Why?

I bit my lip, keeping that possibility in mind. “Did no one question him at the time?”

“You do not question a dead man.” Yora responded. “Though, you know that very well. Don’t you, John?”

“Dead . . . man . . . ?”

If there had been no time to question the murderer, then the murderer must’ve . . .

Swallowing down that information, I said, “You do not question a dead man because he will not speak to you. That is true.”

But there are other ways that he can speak to you from beyond the grave.

Alexander was a product of that. He was the son of George Westley, a living relative that could provide answers on why the story of the Grainer was so relevant to ours.

“Of course, it is just a story.” Yora said, not sounding very much like he believed in his own statement. “In fact, the others by now must’ve seen how connected that story is to us. Cig may have even thought about it unintentionally. That was probably why he brought it up to you.” He waited for me to say anything to him.

All I could tell him was the truth. “Yora.”

He did not move. He was perfectly still, as if I was some cautious rabbit, ready to flee at any loud noise. “Yes?”

That was another thing I noticed. Yora stayed at a distance for himself, but also for me, too. It was like he was fearful of making me nervous.

“I am scared.” I revealed.

He dropped his hands to his sides, shoes grazing the floor to step towards me, but he chose not to.

“You can see that, can’t you?” I said. I was only telling him what he could already see. The truth. “Has it occurred to you that I might die if I go along with your wishes?”

At that, he did come forward, at arm’s-length. “I know you will not die for a stranger.”

“How do you know?” I had to stop my voice from breaking.

The air became tense, and the only thing that broke it was the lightning strikes that continued without a sound. The flashing light from the windows cut through our tension easily, slicing him and I with shadows.

“I don’t.” He admitted. “I don’t know what I will do if you die.”

Softly, I said, “I don’t want to.”

I don’t want to die.

With my eyes, I told him that. He replied by closing his own.

Only the unpredictable would happen. That was why I was telling him this. Despite being strangers, despite our lack of equal trust, and despite his family affairs, I was not fully certain that I would be able to handle any of it. I’d do my best, but how much of that could last? My actions would be entirely dependent on the situations that would arise.

For the first time, we were actually discussing the consequences of what our decisions could bring. It was necessary.

“John.” He fisted his hand, finally looking back at me. “I’ll tell you secrets, because I know they will help you survive.”

I faltered. I thought he would say that he’d tell me secrets only because he trusted me, but instead he went and said that he was doing it for the sake of my survival.

We could work like that. Trust or not, we all wanted to survive this ordeal.

With that idea in my head, I agreed, “Let us attempt to stay alive, then.”

Even if Yora was the murderer, I did not wish death upon him. I did not wish death upon any of the men in the house, not even the professor.

Yora got the gist of my understanding between us. “Sounds like a good plan.”

I wanted to know more, more of what was going on behind the scenes, and more on what those men had been doing during the time of the murder. I’d come to the realization that I’d originally ran away because I knew how much I would want to stick my nose into this mystery.

My survival instincts had warned me at first to stay away, but my heart was inching towards danger.

Danger was enticing me, gradually, and I wasn’t sure in what form it would ultimately come in.

Unfortunately . . . I already had an idea as to what it may look like.