Chương 93: 6.14 How many Samanthas does it take to change a lightbulb?

2104: 03: 17: 14: 01: 22 Inside a rented-out theater, all around a large rectangular table taking literal center stage, sat sixteen people enjoying an 'extravagant dinner' – or in reality, a late lunch. Sunday had arrived, and with it came the event of the century: Millie's birthday party. Set on the table was all the ornamentation one might need, and no more.

Brass candlesticks (the candles were left unlit), a flower vase with a grand plastic bouquet, and all the cutlery and 'fine', 'porcelain' plates a high-society meal with all its courses required. That that many-course meal was just a bit of soup, a chicken sandwich, some salad to the side and a bowl of fruit for dessert, well, that just added to the fun play-pretend atmosphere. Despite the cheap feel of the affair, the ambience was pretty good.

Or maybe it was because it was cheap that the ambiance was good; I couldn't imagine going all-out on the real deal would've led to something as fun as this. The artificiality was purposeful, feeling like a parody, and thus allowed the guests to make parody of themselves as nou-faux riche. Amber sat right beside me, in the center of our side of the table. Jolie sat on the opposite side of Amber and Saga was seated beside her, directly opposite to me.

The flower-filled vase between us and them made talking between all of us somewhat awkward, but not impossible. As for the other guests, I knew them all by name now but hadn't at the start. Only around half were from class Y2C – my class – while the other half were old friends of Millie's I hadn't known before. Some of those were friends of hers met through volunteering and participating in 'Plays For Youths'-programs.

Yes, it turned out that Millie's heroic cover job of 'working at a local theatre' hadn't been a complete lie. She didn't volunteer anymore – not since becoming LieSpy – but she (or her parents) had used that connection to reserve the theater for a themed birthday party. Other friends I didn't recognize were people Millie knew from before moving from Riverside to Northside. Others still were friends of Millie without a clear identifiable backstory. Those I didn't speculate too deeply about.

All were dressed up in extravagant gowns of plastic glitter, or for the men: print-on white tie shirts with a decent-enough tailcoat. All of us also wore masks we'd picked out for ourselves in the beginning, which I figured Millie had thought very funny. Outside of the under-eighteens there were also a number of adults present, though most didn't participate.

Besides Millie's parents filming the event with the help of a couple of other parents – not my mom, thankfully – there was also a 'maidservant, a 'butler', and two 'cooks'. The lunch had come wrapped in cling film, so I highly doubted they were real cooks. As lunch slowly wrapped up and people started talking amongst themselves, the host of this show stood up, tapping her false glass champagne flute filled with grape juice with her not-silver fork, calling for attention.

"Friends, family, fellow Cascadians and Charmites," Millie said, affecting a posh accent.

"I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for coming to my fundraiser for the Charm Beautification Committee. It gladdens me that so many of you have shown, and especially that so many of you have donated so generously." She imperiously gestured toward the table with presents. The audience chuckled coquettishly, as the setting demanded.

"Surely, with leaders such as us our beautiful Charm will grow to become the pearl of the west coast!" We applauded ourse- Millie's speech, I meant.

"And so finally: a toast to you all!" She raised her glass, and every one of us raised our glasses with her. Then, with an overdramatic and unrealistic thud-and-bzzzewww, the lights in the room went out all at once. Speakers flooded the room with an artificially distressed sounding buzz of fake conversation until a second later: a scream, a flash of light and the stock sound of a gunshot took their place. The central vase fell and broke apart.

Running footsteps were heard, followed by the shifting of a chair and a yell from Jolie. At the same time: the sound of someone's not-glass glass falling to the floor and breaking. Then lastly, someone pulled at the tablecloth and in the shifting caused a cacophony of clanging cutlery, clattering plates and more falling glass. As per prior instruction, I and everyone else stood up from our chairs in 'shock'. The lights came back with an inverse of the same noise they'd went out on, revealing the scene of the crime.

Right next to me, having seemingly fallen out of her chair, Amber lay dead on the ground, smiling as fake blood was splattered all over her dress and was continuing to seep out from under her, forming a pool underneath. How had Amber managed to worm her way into the role of the murder victim? I'd been looking forward to her acting skills and relentlessly teasing and accusing her of being the murderer, but now she didn't have to do anything anymore. How unfair.

Aside from Amber, other victims included the earthenware vase, a few of the plates and a couple of glasses some of the guests had 'accidentally' dropped. All pretended to be horrified at the scene. Then, "There's been a murder!" came from somewhere behind Millie. Entering from the right side of the stage, a schlubby-looking man – in dress more than actual appearance – appeared, wearing a brown trench coat, an old-timey fedora, and a chain necklace with a badge attached.

"Nobody move!" he continued.

"This is now an active crime scene! Nobody leaves without my permission!" The detective started moving around and interrogating people. First he quickly questioned the staff – who were cleared of suspicion as they were never meant to be potential suspects, just sources of information – before moving on to the dinner guests.

Everyone had been given a simple information sheet on what was going on along with a couple of lines to say to 'clear them of suspicion' while leaving plenty of space for them to take notes for the whodunnit. However, a special few had special sheets with specific lines to say, directions on how to act, and what clues they were supposed to offer up. As Millie's friend I had of course accepted one such role. Namely, the red herring.

So when the detective came to interrogate me for means and motive, I was discovered to be carrying a gun with me. Gasp! I was asked to hand it over and of course promptly did so, because surely I'd done nothing wrong. The man playing the detective held up the false firearm, scrutinizing it. With one eyebrow raised and a skeptical look on his face, he asked me, "A gun, madam? To a dinner party?"

"Purely for self-defense, I assure you," I drawled.

"Indeed," the not-detective said.

"You felt threatened coming here then?" Outrageous.

"Of course not! This is a society of upstanding people! All friends and of proper standing!"

"Including your neighbor?"

"Why, of course! She's one of my long-time best friends. We've known each other for years and years, and even served together on the Committee's board of directors at the same time."

"A good friend, you say?" The detective asked skeptically.

"Yet just moments ago the butler told us you requested a different seat upon arrival, and got angry when he said the seats were fixed. Care to tell us what that was about?" I clutched my fake pearl necklace, gasping.

"My goodness! Don't think I don't see what you're insinuating, but I resent these accusations! I won't answer any more of your questions! What reason would I have to- to murder one of my best friends?" The detective hummed in thought.

"The night'll tell, ma'am. The night'll tell." And with that, he was off. That went well. Sure, my acting felt kind of awkward, and the 'clues' were laid on pretty thick and unrealistic, but it didn't matter. The goal was amusement and for anyone to be able to get into the game, no matter their critical thinking skills. Besides, as long as Millie was happy it didn't matter whether the story was simple or my acting awkward. And even through the awkwardness, it was still plenty fun.

But whereas I gave myself whole-heartedly to the role despite the awkwardness, Saga's commitment was better expressed as full-throated than whole-hearted. Not that her performance was bad per se, or that she wasn't trying, but it was clear she wasn't enjoying it. Thankfully, as a privileged Best Friend™ of Millie and the least inclined towards acting, she'd been allowed to pick a role for herself and had selected for herself the rude, cynical, uncooperative rival of the murder victim.

So basically she'd picked playing a person that didn't want to be here, meaning her not really wanting to act slotted into her role just fine. She was interrogated and where I had means and suspicions that I was hiding a motive, she was the one with a motive, but no visible means. I didn't know whether Saga was the murderer or not, but she joined me on the pile of prime suspects. Jolie, sitting next to Saga, played the rube, overacting the sweet-and-innocent part to the point of comedy.

As she'd sat directly opposite Amber, she was a suspect by circumstance more than anything else. But when it became clear she'd been pushed and nearly stumbled if Saga hadn't caught her, and with her having neither a motive nor murder weapon, she was dismissed as a suspect. Though in acting out the scene of her falling, she did 'accidently' lift the broken flower vase to reveal a gun underneath one of the larger shards.

Seeing as it lay right in front of Saga's seat, her score in the possibly-the-murderer rankings shot up. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. As for other special roles and suspects: our classmates Abel, Rohana and Carlos were given the role of a police chief, old colonel, and rancher respectively, while one of the people I only met today called Cicero – understandably he preferred to be called Ike – played the role of a lawyer. How appropriate.

They too were interrogated, each giving their own respective clues as to who did what and why. Then there was a round for the participants in the events to question us and the maidservant, butler and cooks. After their time was up, the detective cleared his throat to attract everyone's attention.

"So," he began, "let's get all our facts straight. Suspect #1-" that was me, "-you have the means, a gun, and a motive: the victim was your adulterous ex-lover." This came from the maidservant who, according to the story, was the one Amber had had an affair with. Scandalous.

"What is your defense?"

"I couldn't have shot her; I was next to the victim the entire time!" I rebutted.

"The angle from which I would've had to shoot her – it's impossible! Police Chief Abel confirmed that!"

"Indeed. Yet all witnesses heard footsteps right after the shooting." I shrugged, purposefully offering nothing in defense.

"Suspect #2," the detective continued. Saga grunted in response.

"Your rivalry with the victim is well known to all here." Everyone nodded at the statement. The story between Amber and Saga's real-life issues had reignited somewhat after it became known they'd buried said issues. Oh, and the business rivalry contained in the story too, of course.

"The butler said he heard the gunshot coming from your direction, and a firearm was revealed to be right in front of you, hidden under the broken vase. What do you say?"

"I was pushed during the blackout," Saga growled through gritted teeth.

"My broken glass – which the butler confirmed to be mine – serves as proof for that, and it was I that caught Jolie stumbling in the dark. Hell, I was nearly bowled over myself right after! If you don't believe me, behead me and let this farce be over with." Pretty good acting, although I thought she might've gotten a few lines out of order. Ah, well, she'd said what she needed to.

"We shall see." The detective moved to Rohana and Carlos, the former sitting at Saga's side of the table and the latter on mine. Both were seated almost diagonally opposite of each other.

"Suspects #3 and #4. Our lawyer here-" a nod towards Ike, "-has confirmed your position in the legal cases arrayed against you by the victim. Cases which would promptly disappear if the victim were to die. What do you say?"

"How could I have shot the victim?" Rancher Carlos said.

"I was on the wrong side of the table, and left my gun in the car outside." He patted his empty holster.

"As for the cook's claim that I had it on me – that's absurd! Why would I have brought my gun to a dinner party?" Was he throwing shade at my character?

"What could I have even shot her with?" Colonel Rohana snarked.

"So what if the maidservant thought -" she put a heavy emphasis on the thought, "-she supposedly saw Carlos hand me the gun before? She obviously hates me from some perceived slight I gave her in our days in the army." The perceived slight being the maidservant being accused of cowardice and dishonorably discharged because of Rohana.

"And besides, while I am on the right side of the table, I'm not anywhere near the gun."

"True enough," the detective conceded.

"And yet, no matter the alibis and excuses, a murder has been committed by one of these four suspects." He marched back and forth, rubbing his chin. Then just as suddenly, he stopped and turned towards us.

"Guests and hostess; do you have any ideas?" And with that, the voting began. Most leaned toward Saga being the murderer. She had motive, a gun had been found in front of her, and her position had been right for the angle of the wound according to Abel the Police Chief. Jolie and the fallen glass served as counterweight to the accusation. Some believed that only added to her guilt; she had dropped the gun to catch Jolie.

Also, she just looked the most suspicious 'cause of her acting – or the way she acted, either or. Others leaned towards me. I had the means, motive and was seated closest to Amber, making for an 'easy shot' according to some. It would also explain the footsteps heard after the shot was fired – it was me going back to my place after the deed was done. Others pointed out that the footsteps only came after the shot had been fired, and none before, and thus meant I couldn't have done it.

The counterargument to that was that the overall cacophony during the blackout would've masked my initial footsteps. Carlos and Rohana combined were third in the line of fire. They both had the same motive and people suspected Carlos had had the means – the gun in front of Saga was his, they said. One of the cooks had said they had seen him carry the gun, which, again, Carlos denied the validity of, and there was also the claim of the maidservant about him giving Rohana the gun during the meal itself.

Then after the shooting, while it was still dark, Rohana had somehow managed to dump the gun in front of Saga in order to frame her. As the argument continued and no outright consensus was reached, the detective talked loudly and addressed Millie directly.

"Hostess, you've not said a word, nor have you accused anyone. What are your thoughts on these matters?" Eyes turned to Millie. The birthday girl rubbed her chin.

"I think we should look at the clues outside the testimonies of people," she said.

"One, the footsteps were only heard after the gunshot, meaning those on the same side of the table as Amber couldn't have done it. Two, while the gun was found near Saga, the tablecloth got shifted after the gunshot, meaning the gun was moved and put in front of Saga after being put on the table." Very good. I had noticed that as well, but it had only served to confuse me further.

Accounting for the shifting of the table cloth, the place the gun would've been put down in front of should've been Jolie, but it was even less likely that Jolie was the murderer than Saga. She lacked a motive, and since this is a clue-type game, I doubted they would have left Jolie without a possible motive if she really was the one that was supposed to have done it.

"But the most important clue," Millie continued, "is the vase." I blinked. I hadn't considered the vase.

"You see, the vase broke before the cloth shifted. Meaning it broke not because it fell, but because something hit it. Add to that that both the vase – and the gun – should've been in front of Jolie and not Saga, and the timeline of events becomes quite clear." She pointed a finger at Rohana.

"Rohana fired the gun!" Gasps all around. Millie gestured at Carlos.

"Carlos knew he'd be seen entering the party with a weapon, so he knew he'd be a suspect where Rohana wouldn't. He handed her the gun before the murder took place, and Rohana would throw the gun back so they both had an alibi: Rohana being without murder weapon, and Carlos not having the right angle to fire from.

"Yet something went wrong. In the dark, the flower vase became an unaccounted-for barrier. When Rohana threw the gun, it hit the vase, shattering it in the process and hiding the gun from view initially. Carlos realized what had happened and tried to grab the gun, thus nearly toppling Jolie. He failed because Rohana realized her mistake as well and, in a panic, decided to pull the tablecloth to place the gun in front of Saga, who she knew had a motive to kill Amber.

In the meantime Carlos quickly ran back to his seat – nearly bowling over Saga – and prepared his poor excuse for why his gun was missing." I suppressed the urge to applause. It all sounded correct, though if true, the setup for this murder mystery was surprisingly complex. Did they really expect teenagers to solve this completely? Or was it so that, when the time to vote came everyone, regardless of if they got it right or wrong, would feel they'd had 'the right idea'?

And that those who voted wrong could console themselves the other were right more because of luck than anything else?

"Very well-reasoned," the not-detective said after a short pause. Was he surprised Millie had figured it out?

"Now, a final round of votes. Raise hands if you think Suspect #1 did it." No hands.

"Suspect #2?" No hands.

"Suspect #3?" Everyone. The actor broke character, snorting in amusement, but then resumed his role.

"Then thank you all for the help, and despite the unpleasantries: I hope you all had a great evening!" The detective, maidservant, butler and cooks bowed. X It was long past the middle of the night, halfway to morning at 3: 12 AM, and I was still in a good mood. My duties for the day were done: both studies and homework were completed and decently ahead of the curve, more forms – nothing new or interesting; all duplicates – grew closer to mastery, and my memcordings of the day all neatly integrated.

For hours thereafter, I kept replaying the memcordings of Millie's birthday party, especially the murder story. The detective novel I'd just begun reading wasn't nearly as good as that'd been, so much so that it kind of spoiled the book for me. I figured that was just because of recency bias and the fact that the book had yet to gather steam, but that didn't change my feeling of boredom as I stared at the words. Still, it wouldn't be fair not to give it a chance, and who knew? It might get better soon.

Serpents Amidst Smoke hadn't been the greatest in the beginning either, and that'd become a favorite by the end. So, as she did increasingly often in the lonely nights, Sam continued reading her detective novel while lying on the couch, the soft light of the Paperfold only slightly illuminating her face. Her mother was most likely asleep, or had gone out masking – Sam couldn't recall, but it didn't really matter. So she continued reading.

Her eyes read a scene that, she thought, was supposed to be a clue to the greater mystery – why else was the detective interviewing a named character, when normally randoms remained unnamed? – but the dots just didn't connect. Maybe she was simply imagining it? Then again, she had difficulty paying attention to the words. Everything felt kind of foggy. She looked at the clock on her Paperfold; it was getting late. Maybe she should go to bed?

Neither she nor Amber had plans to go out masking today, let alone this late at night, so she didn't even know why she was still up. Sighing, she set down the Paperfold. She didn't even know why she was reading a detective novel rather than, say, science fiction or fantasy. Or better yet, watch something animated; the TV was right there! Those were her usual mainstays, after all, but she supposed that it was good to branch out from time to time.

That, and it was nice to have something to talk to Amber about – even if it was just her complaining to her friend/mentor about just how bad this particular detective novel was. Still, she wished that she'd chosen a better book than The One That God Forgot. As she rose from the couch, she stretched and yawned loudly, feeling the exhaustion setting in. What had she been thinking, staying up so late? Tomorrow was a school day; there was no way she would feel good the next day if she continued staying up so late.

She idly tried to recall her reasoning, but was met by a thick fog clouding her memory. She frowned and thought more intently, but all that did was summon a headache and a dizzy spell that nearly knocked her unconscious. God, was she really that tired…? Thinking nothing further of it, Sam decided to head upstairs and back to her room. Only four hours of sleep… was it even worth it?

She'd once read that even a single hour of sleep was better than pulling a full all-nighter, but she also knew she'd feel worse waking up after a short sleep than she would if she didn't sleep at all. Maybe she could convince Mom to let her stay at home for a day? Then again, that would mean telling her why she stayed up so late to begin with, which might put Mom in a mood and force her to go anyway. She remembered her little brother trying something similar recently, and that had not worked out for him.

Maybe she could ask her dad? Probably not; he'd just defer to Mom. Still, if she timed it just right after Mom had already gone to work, maybe it'd work. She went to the bathroom first. She thought about brushing her teeth for a second, but decided against it. The toothbrushes were electric and the noise might wake Mom or Dad up, and then she'd have to answer regardless of whatever scheme she had. Going to the toilet, however, was fine.

In fact, if the sound of the toilet woke her parents up, maybe Sam could convince them she'd just been sleeping poorly and needed to stay home because of it? After finishing her business, she washed her hands with soap. She left the water running as she grabbed her towel; she might need to wash off some of her makeup. She couldn't recall whether she'd put something on today, but something in her said she had, that today had been a special day rather than a regular stay-at-home Sunday.

Dropping the towel, she looked in the mirror. Her eyes met their counterpart and Sam was struck by what she saw. The face, though familiar enough in general, felt wrong at the angles. Leaner and more severe, albeit only marginally so. She also looked clearer-eyed – no redness at all – then she'd expected considering the lateness and fatigue she felt. There was also her hair. Tightly bound and drawn into a ponytail; neither of which were her preferred style.

Nor were her clothes, she found, anything she or her mother would've bought. Near-colorless and singularly plain, smooth without ruffles or frills, graphics or anything else decorative but a small brand logo; it wasn't anything like what she usually wore. The more she looked in the mirror, the more discrepancies she found. Her muscle tone was off, her skin felt too tight at places, her stomach and everything else too flat compared to what she remembered. Even the rise and fall of her chest looked off rhythm.

It was like looking at a stranger wearing her own skin. With that thought, Sam felt a wave of vertigo. Something crawled in the edges of her vision, and the vision itself began to narrow and grow grainy. So grainy in fact that, despite the bathroom light, her vision went all but completely dark. Then Sam remembered and a thread of rage spun in her gut, circling, coiling, hardening. She stared up at the ceiling to her unseen foe and- Dizzily, she stumbled back and misstepped, twisting her ankle in the motion.

She flailed her arms to try and find something to hold onto, but while one found the edge of the shower door the other had its elbow smashed on the edge of the sink. With the shock of pain came a wave of clarity and a cacophony of sensations, one that reminded me of when I first woke up back in my creator's base. The running faucet sounded like a waterfall amplified to the point it would've drowned out a shuttle crashing through my home.

The smell of soap was so fierce it hit me like a punch to the nose, and the low bathroom looked as bright as the sun, my eyes burning from its intensity. Then, all that was replaced by my Heroic Impulse screaming at me in the high pitch of a tinnitus tone, bypassing my ears to jam itself straight into my skull. Nothing else was felt. From the running water leaving the faucet to my pounding heart and labored breaths; nothing but a buzz of nothing-noise; high-pitched and sharp, piercing like a needle.

Even the bruise-ache of my elbow was gone. Then that too disappeared, and everything returned to normal. For a second water splashing against porcelain, the dull throb of a forming bruise on my elbow, and my own wheezy breathing was all that existed.

"Sammy?" I started, looking at the door. It was closed.

"I heard a loud noise coming from the bathroom," Mom said from the other side.

"Are you alright?" I stood up and opened the door.

"Yes, sorry. I… I fell." Mom looked at me, still half asleep yet growing more alert by the second.

"Another headache?" I shook my head.

"No, I just… I think I misstepped or something." I showed her my elbow.

"Probably going to bruise soon."

"May I?" she asked, hand reaching out. I nodded and she touched my elbow.

"Well, you're not hissing in pain so I doubt that it's broken. Does it hurt?"

"Like I said, feels like a bruise."

"Hm," Mom hm-ed.

"Are you sure you're alright? You look a bit pale." No, I wasn't. It had happened without warning, without fanfare. Without headaches or nausea, without any great emotion. Without the Heroic Impulse looming overhead, subtly sinking its influence deep into my mind to wrest control. Nothing. It was a severe escalation of my degradation, and for it to have come from pseudo-Sam was especially worrying.

I thought I had better control of that part when compared to the Heroic Impulse, but apparently not if it could take control from me so blatantly, almost absently, without warning. But I couldn't say that of course.

"I'm fine." Mom looked at me for a second before sighing.

"Okay. Just, you know you…" But she didn't finish the sentence, sighing again in tired anguish. Guilt coursed through me, but I held firm. Even if she would find out one day, now was not the time.

"Let me look at it tomorrow again, alright? Then we'll see if we need to go to the doctor or something."

"Alright," I said.

"Goodnight?" She smiled a smile full of love.

"Goodnight, Sam." She returned back to her room, leaving me to thoughts I did my best to ignore.