John

“Two heads are better than one. That is the mindset of Modiano and Westley.” Yora had said in passing, whilst we walked into the second biggest room that I’d seen in the grand house. “Our union has brought us great success so far . . .” And then in a low whisper he mentioned, “But at the cost of too much.”

I stopped at the center of a magnificent ballroom, where I faced one of the french doors in the middle of the farthest wall. Other doors had been left open, to let the white curtains spill out onto the veranda, next to an accessible path that led to the garden and the rest of the sprawling grounds.

The portraits on the high walls seemed more out of reach too. Those painted people were draped in gaudy fabric, with jewels dripping from their limbs as they posed like grecian Gods. They were the ones who had lived in the house before, many years ago. They had helped accumulate the wealth of the families . . . just like the new generation was doing so now.

“Do you have a portrait like that?” I asked Yora.

He had walked further into the ballroom, so his voice echoed when he said, “I’ve not commissioned one quite yet.” He confessed. I could hear the heels of his shoes step closer to me as I continued to eye the open doors. No doubt we’d be forced to return inside if we ventured too far outside. “Alexander and his siblings have all been painted, though. My sister, too.”

“How does your sister look?” I had suddenly let that question slip. Yora had a unique face. He reminded me of a playful snake, almost. His features were very sharp, and so were his expressions. The overall feeling he gave off was one of mischievousness, especially when he smiled. I had a hard time imagining what the rest of the Modiano family looked like. His cousin, Light, hardly resembled Yora at all, except for the fact that they both shared dark hair and green eyes.

Yora laughed airily, “You are suddenly curious about my sister?”

“You did say that you would reveal secrets.” I reminded him, watching him on my left. He’d placed his hands in his pockets and stood there next to me casually.

“I did promise you that, didn’t I?” He turned on his heels to observe the giant ballroom. We were tiny compared to the massive size of the room. The entire nearby town could fit inside the place with ease. It literally was meant for a very huge family to entertain.

“Will you?”

“Will I tell you all that you need to know? Yes, I will.” Yora clarified. He swung his arms up, to show me the grandness of his home, “That is why I’ve brought you here.”

I regarded the place, taking in the atmosphere, the scale, and the intended purpose of it. One could only assume that this must have been the same place that the story had mentioned, the one with Alexander’s murderous great-uncle.

Feeling goosebumps rising on my arm again, I began heading towards those doors. It was incredibly dark outside, and rainy. I could hardly see the garden.

When I reached the doorframe, I let myself lean on it, to feel the sprinkle of water from the rain hit my face softly. Freedom was so close, yet so far away.

Silently, Yora appeared on my right, leaning on the opposite side of the door. “My sister is beautiful and beloved by all.” He said, voice dropping low. There was no need to speak aloud anymore, not whilst we stood closely. “I admire her courage and tenacity . . . because I could never imagine enduring what she has to do for this family.”

I watched his face. “Does she look like you?”

“She resembles my father, whereas I’ve been told I look more like my mother.” He said. “And you? Do you have siblings of your own?”

Not leaving my sight on him, I considered what he’d told me in the kitchen. Our secrets would not really leave the house. I could not go to the authorities and spill the secrets of Westley and Modiano, because no one would ever believe my words. The same could be said for those families—I had no part in the murder . . . therefore, my secrets and personal life were of no interest to them. Right?

“I don’t have siblings.” I told him. It was the truth.

Yora’s eyes searched the grounds. He appeared sentimental. “I wonder what that must be like.” He said. “I seriously would not be alive without mine. We practically raised each other.”

For him to say that—

It should’ve been easy to find the culprit if they knew one another so well. But then again, I never had siblings. I could not quickly understand what he meant.

If I had a sibling, I assumed that I would depend on them too. It must have been nice to have that. Perhaps it would have given me the ability to trust others more easily.

“Family is complicated.” I remarked.

Yora agreed, “We don’t have to look very far to understand that.” He placed his attention back to the ballroom, where the murder scene had taken place all those years ago.

Hearing more sides to the story would be very interesting. I was anxious to begin interrogating the rest of the guests, though I knew I could only get away with doing such investigations with Yora. He would be the gateway into the family secrets, which was both inconvenient and convenient.

I had to share most of my findings with a complete stranger who could’ve been the murderer. Even Alexander could’ve done it.

It was tiring not being able to trust anyone.

Squinting, I tried to make out any sort of clear images from the darkness beyond the ballroom. Anyone could’ve been out there, watching us.

“Why was your sister not invited to the party?” I questioned. “From what I’ve heard, there are only men here.”

Yora did laugh a little bit more genuinely this time around at my findings, “I had mentioned this party to her, though at this point she has probably forgotten all about it.” He left his place at the door to walk ahead, into the light shower outside.

I did nothing but stare, until I followed after him at my own pace.

The drizzle from above made my hair damp as I stayed there, taking in the scale of the veranda. The moonlight did nothing to help me register all of what my eyes could see, therefore I depended largely on the fact that I’d looked into the darkness for so long my eyes were barely beginning to adjust to it.

Yora, leaning on the stone wall on the far edge of the veranda, brought out one of his cigarettes from his pocket, fiddling with it.

Gradually, I made my way to him, but I remembered to keep my distance, so as not to make him uncomfortable. I had realized long ago that the last thing he ever would’ve wanted was to touch me.

Biting his lip, he exhaled and raised that cigarette up. In the faint light of the moon I could see the odd color of it.

Pink.

“Alexandra is the model for my cigarettes.” Yora revealed. “In the advertisement, she wears a great big hat and a green sweater.”

“Does she have your green eyes?” I couldn’t see his clearly.

He shook his head, “As of now, she has grey eyes. Nearly blue.”

As of now?

I grew confused with his wording.

“I was born with green eyes, but a majority of my family has adopted the color as well.” Yora said. It had not sounded like he was joking. “Of course, Westley has naturally blue or grey eyes in their family—well, most of them.”

Thinking back to the kitchen, I recalled how Yora had said that he would tell me a few secrets, but that he would ultimately tell me the biggest one. His strange statements could’ve been related to his promise.

In a way, he was introducing those statements in a very nostalgic manner. His sister, his extended family, and the Westley family—Yora talked of them quite sweetly. If I hadn’t known what was happening to them, I would’ve assumed that they were all on good terms.

What I expected was that the fault must’ve been with the elder generation of the families. For example, the one who had died was George Westley. None of the younger members of the families had died . . . yet.

I sincerely hoped no one would die during this, otherwise my opinions would change, and I would be left with very little idea as to why anything was happening at all.

My own theories were almost biased towards the men who were my age, because I understood where they came from.

“The secrets . . .” Yora cut into my thinking, as if he could tell that I was already running away with my thoughts. “Have you ever heard of the Darling Flower?”

I shrugged, “I grew up learning a lot about agriculture, but I’ve never heard of that flower.”

He turned from the wall to rest his back upon it, still holding that cigarette between his gloved fingers, “It is a name for a combination of flowers that are major ingredients in this—” He referred to the cigarette. “When they burn, they smell primarily of burnt plumeria, even though they do not contain it.”

Hearing the specifics of such an invention from the actual creator was, admittedly, refreshing. No offense to Cig, but hearing about the cigarette from Yora felt more legitimate.

Leaning in my direction, he placed the cigarette between us, so that when he pulled back, I reached and grabbed it, to maintain our distance.

As his smog mask fell around his neck, he continued, “Side effects of these cigarettes actually begin in stages.” I could feel his eyes scanning me as I held the pink cigarette.

Physically, it was just like any other one out there, except for the fact that it was pink. And as for what was inside, Yora had explained that it was far different than the ones I could get at the store. I recognized that too, because I had smelled the beautiful scent they emitted.

“Stages?” I looked up at him. The cigarette was becoming soggy in my hands as the drizzle cascaded down onto us, almost like a fine mist.

He nodded, “First stage is dizziness.”

His actions from before, when he’d asked me how many numbers he was holding up, were understandable now that I knew what he’d been hiding. I had felt disoriented earlier, though I’d brushed it off as a side effect from the anxiety of what had happened with the professor.

No doubt I’d inhaled so much of the product that I had also grown dizzy from it, too. “It’s that powerful?”

“Yes.” He admitted.

When I thought about it, learning the secrets of those cigarettes was interesting, but so far it had nothing to do with my investigation. “Why is this relevant?”

Yora chose to ignore my question, “The second stage is probably the most important one.” He gave me a knowing look, well-aware that I had too many questions to ask for one conversation. “Can you guess what it is? You have experienced it firsthand.”

“Me?” I pointed to myself.

When I received no input from him, I looked back at the cigarette, which had wilted in my palm. I had been affected by it, even though I hadn’t personally smoked any.

The fact that they were so potent, that I’d grown so dizzy that I’d forgotten—

Yora lifted a brow when my eyes lit up in recognition.

“Memory loss?” I asked more than said.

“It’s a relief that you did not reach the third stage, John.” Yora gazed at the cigarette with an unreadable face. “Mood swings come after memory loss, and after that . . .” He returned to look at the garden, “The last stage is something more horrible than death.”

Uncomfortable with the cigarette on my palm, I put it back on the stone wall gently. I’d never heard of such a thing before Yora had explained it, more calmly than I ever would’ve been capable of.

Uneasy, I spoke up, “Is this your ultimate secret?”

“Yes and no.” Yora said, not leaving his sight of the dark garden. “Of course, you have to smoke more than one to reach the later stages, which isn’t all that dangerous if you are careful with your intake.”

“The later stages are just . . .”

“Not just death,” He corrected. “Coloring of the eyes occurs during that, too.”

I’d only ever heard of medications causing such side effects. I was not a scientist, though. It was all very hard to believe.

“Is this some joke?” I questioned.

“I don’t tell false secrets, John.” He strode up to me. “You have to consider that anyone could’ve done it, especially if they’ve been in constant contact with these—” He took that cigarette between us and showed me. “Someone in our party could have even forgotten that they murdered George Westley.”

The impact of his words struck me fiercely. I couldn’t help but be shocked at his claim. It was not a bad accusation. If anything, it explained why no one that I’d met so far could recognize the professor’s voice.

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” I approached him, to look deeper into his eyes, “You could be the murderer. All of you could be.”

He did not move. He simply stared down at me, in yet another rare instance where I was allowed to be in his space. “It could be you, too.” He said softly.

I swallowed. I had been trying not to think too hard about that possibility.

“I guess so.” I responded, equally as quiet.

We both dropped our attention to the cigarette.

What we hadn’t said aloud was that if someone had used the cigarettes enough to forget, then that person was close to the last stage of the side effects. The murderer could’ve been in danger of dying.

If that was the case, then I would have to save not only the guests, but also the one who had trapped us in the house in the first place.

“Is there a cure?” My voice was strained.

He left me, “People buy these cigarettes because they help with the one thing they’d like the most—” Over his shoulder, he told me, “Isn’t it a luxury to forget all of the bad things?”

Stunned, I found that I could not reply.

My roommate was . . .

Turning from him, I put a hand over my mouth, taken aback. I still had a hard time accepting that what he said was true.

He could’ve been lying, but I’d apparently experienced two of those stages firsthand—I could do nothing but believe him, in the meantime.

Yora had gone back to his spot near the stone wall. He was focused on the moon, which had finally peeked out from behind a cluster of grey clouds.

I chose not to stare for too long. I was growing tired from this newfound information.

What could I do with it, exactly? Time would ultimately tell me. I just wish I had known earlier.

I wish I had known about the cigarettes in the first place, but they had come from a different world than mine. A world where people could forget their memories with a single trick, a deadly trick . . .

Time was ticking, and with this secret finally unveiled, I saw that time had also been wasted. If Yora hadn’t told me about those cigarettes, then would I have stayed in the dark throughout my entire investigation?

Clasping the damp stone wall with one hand, I used the other to brush away the dew that’d collected on my hair. We had to go back inside, or else we’d become too drenched.

I was about to tell this to Yora, though I refrained. I had to consider what Cig had told me as well.

Yora must have despised those cigarettes more than anything, and yet he could not escape them. They could’ve been the main reason as to why everything was happening.

Our situation technically could’ve been Yora’s entire fault, even if he hadn’t meant to.

And he knew that. He knew that more than anyone else in the world.

Now I did too, and for once . . .

I felt bad for him.