Act 2 1 In an action movie, this would be the part where I’d start training in karate or kung fu to prepare for a showdown with the final boss. But instead, I started with reading. “Read As You Like It. I need to make lunch,” Miri said with a smile, waving both hands. How could I say no when she asked like that? I didn’t feel like going outside, so I bought a digital copy. While waiting for it to download, my Monday online class started, and a message from Sugai popped up. Time flew by as I filled him in on everything that had happened (leaving out, of course, the parts about Miri and seeing the past). My afternoon classes were canceled for the day. Apparently, the school administration had a lot to discuss. I fed Saburou, heated up a frozen meal, and started reading Shakespeare’s As You Like It. It was my first time reading a play, and I couldn’t really get into it at first. My thoughts drifted to Miri instead. How old was she? There didn’t seem to be much of an age gap between us. Did she live alone? Could she be a college student like me? Eventually, the script hooked me, and despite a few interruptions from Saburou, I managed to finish it. By the time I was done, evening had settled in. I looked into Saburou’s eyes— Miri sat in the afternoon sun, still wearing the same clothes as this morning. “What did you think of Shakespeare?” she asked. “I was surprisingly riveted. His phrasing is so sophisticated. It’s hard to believe it was written four hundred years ago.” “I know! Shakespeare is just amazing.” Miri’s eyes sparkled as she launched into the finer points of Shakespearean literature. I loved watching her expressions change as she spoke. She had gone completely off topic, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, so I didn’t interrupt. “What’s that smell? Is something burning?” Saburou’s sensitive nose twitched, picking up the scent. I noticed a haze of smoke wafting around Miri. “Huh—?” She glanced around, her eyes widening. Suddenly, she yelped and bolted out of my view. The Saburou in her time followed her. Miri’s home was much larger than I had imagined—it looked like a high-end city apartment. Through the lace curtain, I could see the tops of buildings. A one-hundred-inch TV, a sleek sofa, a glass table, a long fur rug, decorative plants… A quick look revealed an array of high-quality furnishings. Smoke billowed from a frying pan on her kitchen island. “Oh, no, no, no, no!” Flustered, Miri flailed her arms like a character in a manga. “Miri, turn off the burner!” I yelled instinctively, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. She turned off the burner and grabbed a hand towel. As she did, a knife fell off the counter and lodged itself in the floor, narrowly missing Saburou, who leaped out of the way. Miri wet the towel and tossed it into the pan, sending up a loud hiss of steam. Seeing that everything was under control, I exhaled in relief. Miri slumped in disappointment, holding Saburou as she returned to the room with the bookshelf. “Noooo…,” she whimpered, looking ready to cry. “I only wanted to talk to you for a second, and now…” “I thought you’d finished lunch already. You can’t walk away from an open flame, you know.” “I’m sorry.” “You can be a little absent-minded sometimes, can’t you? Didn’t you see a future where you burned the frying pan?” “Oh, come on! Don’t be mean!” She pouted. I felt bad for her, but I couldn’t help laughing. I broke the connection for a moment, and when I reconnected, a fair amount of time seemed to have passed. Miri had tidied up the kitchen and finished her lunch. She resumed our conversation as if nothing had happened. “So the reason I asked you to read Shakespeare is because you need to join the university Drama Club.” “The Drama Club?” I blurted. “What? Why the Drama Club?!” “Well…” Miri paused for a moment. “If you were in a maze and saw a sign pointing to the exit, you’d follow it, right?” “Sure.” “The exit is through the Drama Club.” “Really?” I sighed. Miri looked at me sympathetically. “I know it’ll be tough, but you can do it. We have a week until the auditions.” “Wait, there are auditions?!” “That’s right. The club’s uniquely charismatic leader screens all entrants.” “Seriously? Kung fu would have been easier.” “Kung fu?” Miri cocked her head. “It’s nothing. But I’ve never acted before. Do you think I can learn a monologue in a week?” “You’ll be fine. I’ll help you.” Miri puffed up with pride. “Miri, have you ever acted before?” “A little. Don’t worry, if you practice hard, I know you’ll pass! I saw it in the future.” “I don’t know about this.” A sense of unease crept up like smoke from a frying pan. “All right then, we start with practicing enunciation—” Miri continued excitedly, oblivious to any smoke for a second time. 2 The week passed quickly. Shockingly quickly. Miri and I would chat between my online classes, then practice after school. I found the routine enjoyable and would have been happy to continue like that forever—until, just as Miri predicted, my university resumed in-person classes, and I had to physically return to school. I took the train from Komagome Station to Takadanobaba, then walked about twenty minutes to campus. A wave of nostalgia hit me as I set foot on campus. It had been a while. Sneaking into the shadows, I opened Saburou’s carrier and let him out. Miri had told me to bring him, saying he would be essential later. Saburou glanced back at me once, then casually wandered off. I headed toward my psychology classroom. Hand sanitizer was set up by the door, and a sign warned that private conversations were forbidden. I picked a random seat and immediately overheard people ignoring the no-talking rule. “My boyfriend and I started living remotely.” “Living remotely?” “We leave a video chat open all the time so we can talk to each other all day long.” Wow, what a modern concept. Young people are so creative. “I’ve been cleaning more and paying attention to my appearance. It’s the best.” I, too, had cleaned my room, using my meager savings to build a catwalk for Saburou. I’d even started washing my face in the morning and changing out of my pajamas. In a way, wasn’t my connection with Miri also a form of living remotely? The thought made me blush, my cheeks flushing beneath my mask. That’s when it hit me: Miri and I had never exchanged contact information. She had always changed the subject when I brought it up, and never offered it to me later. A phone would be much easier to use than a cat as a messenger. So why not—? My psychology class started. A ridiculous thought crossed my mind: If I studied this subject hard enough, maybe I’d be able to understand her mind. 3 My classes finished around four in the afternoon, and I made my way to the building that housed the clubrooms for the arts. The Drama Club room was easy to find, tucked at the end of the second-floor hallway. It stood out because pieces of paper were plastered everywhere. The Drama Club is looking for new members! Spew pools of hot blood on the stage! Die on the stage! Come, you wild warriors, and duel on the battlefield called auditions! Bold, wild brushstrokes filled entire sheets of printer paper, with flyers running the length of the second-floor hallway. But the disturbing part was that none of them were copies—each one had been written by hand. The sense of madness was palpable. “I want to join the Going Home Club,” I mumbled to myself, completely serious. Of course, no one heard me. Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. “AAAHHHHhhhhhh…!” A wild bellow, like someone in the throes of death, laced with sadness. The door to the Drama Club room flew open. I stood frozen, mouth agape. A man covered in blood stumbled out. Crimson blood poured from a deep wound on his forehead, and he shuffled toward me with a deranged, zombie-like gait. “Kill, kill, kill, must kill…,” he muttered ominously. I tried to blend in to the wall as he staggered past without noticing me. …This could only mean trouble. Was “spewing pools of hot blood” not a metaphor, after all? I should get out of here while I still could. Just as I was convincing myself to leave, I heard a voice. “Hey, you! Are you here to join?” I panicked, standing perfectly still as if pretending to be lifeless would help. A cold sweat ran down my spine. Slowly, fearfully, I turned around. A shirtless man stood behind me, arms akimbo. He wore jeans, but his chest was completely bare or, rather, covered in a thick, unbroken carpet of hair that ran down to his navel. It looked like he was wearing a coat of fur. “You’re here to join, right? I can tell by your aura,” he said, speaking with the confidence of a psychic. Before I could respond, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into the room. The space was about the size of a futsal court, with shelves of props and costumes lining the walls. A screen and projector rested nearby. But none of that mattered. A bloody board lay on the floor. Anyone who saw a bloodstained board on the floor would find it hard to focus on anything else. The man sat down in a chair behind a plastic partition, stroking his chest hair like someone would stroke their beard. I could only stare, torn between the bloody board and his hairy chest. “Ah, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I am Shimao Amou, the director of the Drama Club.” This was the “uniquely charismatic” director Miri had mentioned. And he was certainly…unique. “Excuse me, but why is there a bloody board on the floor? And why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” “Is it not polite to introduce yourself first?” “Oh, I’m Youichi Kamisuki.” “Okay, Kamisuki, you’re up second. Let’s start your audition.” It seemed he wasn’t planning on answering my questions. Amou pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and tossed it to me. “By the way, do you have any experience onstage?” “No, none.” “All right then, you start with fifty Amou points.” I had no idea what Amou points were, but I opened the paper and froze. “Do you know where it’s from?” Amou asked. “It’s Jaques from As You Like It by Shakespeare.” “Would you look at that! You know your stuff! That’s three more Amou points! Now, go for it!” I took a deep breath and began reciting the lines. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances—” The hand stroking the chest hair stopped. I could hardly believe how much I had improved. I remembered all those practice sessions with Miri. Her advice had been spot-on. It felt like she had seen all the ways I could improve and guided me along those paths. I began to feel something like the fate Miri had talked about. “Well,” Amou said once I finished, sounding impressed. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” “Well, I practiced for about a week.” “A week—!” He laughed heartily. “I see. So you had a week! That’s minus twenty Amou points!” “Huh? Why a penalty?” “If you reach zero Amou points, you pass!” “That doesn’t make any sense!” So those first three points were actually taking me away from passing. Amou was clearly enjoying himself. “All right, you’ve got thirty-three points left. Give it your all!” I was just beginning to despair when the door burst open, and a female student in glasses ran in, screaming. “We’ve got a problem. There’s a fire!” 4 I rushed after the swift, still-shirtless Amou. The breeze carried a piece of ash toward us, and the acrid smell of smoke filled my nose. Intense flames were shooting up from the eastern side of the club building, blackening the white walls. A crowd had already gathered, and a strange voice cut through the noise. “Let go of me! Let go!” The blood-covered man had his hands pinned behind his back, writhing furiously. The sight of him standing before the flames horrified me. “Hey, Youichi! Youichi, is that you?!” The guy restraining the blood-covered man called out to me. He was muscular, with short black hair, and looked like he worked out. As I got closer, I realized it was Kentarou Sugai. We had met in April, right before classes went online, and had mostly gotten to know each other through chat rooms. It took me a moment to recognize him, especially with his mask on. “Youichi, give me a hand!” I acted on instinct. Together with Sugai, we restrained the blood-covered man. Amou yelled: “The fire! Put out the fire!” At his orders, everyone else quickly formed a fire brigade, dousing the flames with water. Two fire extinguishers were sprayed onto the fire, and finally, it was tamed. A girl knelt in front of the smoldering embers, blowing away in the white smoke, sobbing. She wore bright, funky clothes—pink-tipped blond hair tucked under a pink cap, and a shirt with a design that looked like a munchkin cat painted by a drunk Picasso. “Noooo… I worked so hard on these!” She told us her story: During the lockdown, the scenery and props groups had been hard at work making all the sets and props. They had loaded everything into a rental truck, unloaded it outside the Drama Club room, and turned away for just a second before the fire had started. “And he’s the one who set it,” Amou said, crossing his arms and motioning toward the blood-covered man. “Yes, he was crying, staring at the fire, muttering kill, kill, kill.” “It has to be him!” Amou nodded vigorously in agreement. “No! It wasn’t me!” the blood-covered man declared. “Sure, I wasn’t in my right mind, but I didn’t set the fire!” “And who’s going to believe you, all covered in blood?!” Amou shouted. Though I wasn’t sure if someone walking around without a shirt was in any position to talk about credibility. Suddenly, I felt something brush against my feet. Looking down, I saw Saburou. I picked him up and quietly moved into the shadows. Then I looked into his eyes, and— Miri looked worried. “What a mess.” “Everything happened so fast it made my head spin. You knew that would happen, didn’t you?” “I did. Isn’t Amou so intense? I laugh every time I see him.” Miri chuckled endearingly. Wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, she added, “Okay then, Yochi, now it’s your turn. You’re going to find the arsonist.” “What? Me? How am I supposed to do that?” “Don’t worry; it’s simple. One cute little eyewitness saw it all, you know?” “A cute eyewitness…? Oh, gotcha.” I broke the connection for a moment, and Saburou cocked his head at me. Then I stared into his eyes once more, and— “I have come to dueeeeeellll!” A loud voice suddenly fills my ears. Startled, I almost fall off the balcony railing. I hear Amou’s reply through the open window. “Challenge aaaaaaaaaccepted!” The door opens with a bang, and a man strides into the room—though, he isn’t covered in blood yet. “My name is Takeru Samura! I’m a freshman! Amou, I’ve been a fan ever since my first year of high school, when I saw you perform as a third-year student!” “That’s the spirit!” Amou replied, still wearing a T-shirt. His shirt has the twin field mice, Guri and Gura, on it—a peculiar choice, given his appearance. “Okay then, let the audition begin!” Amou sits on a folding chair while Samura stands on the other side of a plastic screen. They both remove their masks. “Okay, to start, hit me with a Kamehameha.” “A Ka…a Kamehameha? Like, from Dragon Ball?” Amou nods. Kamehameha…? It’s such a bizarre request that I almost fall over. But somehow Samura understands, responding, “Oh, I see… A Kamehameha… Of course you would…” Then he yells: “Ka-me-ha-me-haaa!” He shoots. It’s superb. Had I actually been there, I would have applauded. But Amou barely reacts, saying: “Nothing came out.” “What?” “The Kamehameha! I didn’t see anything shoot out of your hands!” Of course, nothing would actually come out. What did he expect? “I’m so sorry! Please let me try again!” “HAAAAaaa!” This time, Samura seems to pull energy from the air, screaming: “KA-ME-HA-ME-HAAAAAAAAAAA!” It’s incredible. I could almost see the energy shooting out of him. But Amou stands and tears into him. “That’s not it at aaaall! Break the plastic screen! Infect me!” “I… I’m so sorry!” It’s absurd. Looking annoyed, Amou sits back down and says: “You gained ten Amou points.” “What…? Thank…thank you so much…!” Samura looks happy, but it’s a trap. He’s actually moved further away from his goal. Amou tosses a folded piece of paper toward the now-slightly optimistic Samura. Unfolding it, his eyes widen. “This…this is a scene from your infamous play, The Specter of the Furrow!” Instructed to perform, Samura checks his surroundings, removes a wooden board from a shelf, takes a deep breath, and begins reciting the lines. “Oh, but is this what becomes of our fate? Too fragile to stand upon, too strong to break…” His lamentations express the grief of someone at the mercy of fate. As the scene builds toward a crescendo, he smacks his head with the board. A dull sound rings out, and blood pours from his head. He continues hitting himself, crying as blood covers him. He seems like the kind of actor who becomes possessed by his roles. It’s impressive, but honestly, a bit much. “Enough, enough.” Amou cuts the performance short. “You fail.” “What?” Samura stands unsteadily, staring blankly. “Fail? Wh-why?” “I saw you perform in high school once.” Amou’s expression remains stern. “You stood onstage, nothing but skin and bones, as if you were starving to death. The impact overwhelmed the judges, and you dominated the national competition. I was surprised to see such dedication from a high school student.” “Then why…why do I fail?” “Impressive isn’t the same as good.” Amou speaks coolly. “It’s like being the only person to use a pole in the high jump. Getting depravingly skinny, spewing blood. You used a trick to show you could jump the highest, but you couldn’t get that high without it. Ultimately, you want others to see you as a good actor, but that’s different from wanting to be good. It’s a kind of malicious longing. You become obsessed not with touching the audience’s souls, but with trampling your rivals onstage. That’s an obsession with standing in the limelight, not love. It may look similar, but it isn’t. People like that reach a certain level quickly, but they don’t progress further. They might become excellent, but never exceptional. You might fool judges at high school plays, but not me.” He then glances to the side and mutters: “…And you can’t even shoot a Kamehameha.” He had spoken so eloquently, but that last part was unnecessary. Samura trembles. And then he breaks. Letting out a wild scream, he picks up the broken board, looking ready to strike. “What, you want to fight meeeeee?!” Amou bellows, inexplicably ripping his shirt straight down the middle. Poor Guri and Gura—those wonderful friends—now torn apart as Amou’s chest hair explodes forth. He spreads his arms wide, striking a ridiculous yet beautiful pose, like a peacock, his toned body on display in a pointless act of intimidation. They exchange fiery looks. I swallow hard. Then, abruptly, Saburou looks away and walks off. How disappointing. What a time for him to lose interest. Saburou follows his whims, fussing over a swallowtail butterfly as he wanders about. Eventually, the pile of sets and props appears. They haven’t caught fire yet. Up above them, a woman leans out a window, relishing a cigarette. Perhaps out of carelessness, she flicks the butt away without looking. It lands on an oil painting, and soon the sets are engulfed in flames. Samura watches impassively. And then the blood-covered man walks up, looking completely out of his mind. Staring into the flames, he mutters “Kill, kill, kill” like a curse, large tears swelling in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. 5 I broke the connection and sighed. How could I possibly present this evidence to everyone? “Come on, I’m taking you to the police!” Sugai said, dragging Samura away. Samura resisted, and I knew I had to intervene. “Wait, he didn’t do it!” “What did you say?” Sugai scowled. “How do you know that?” Because I saw it in a cat’s eyes. But I couldn’t tell them that, so I quickly replied, “Think about it logically. It’s obvious.” “Logically?” The confusion on Sugai’s face was apparent. He was quite expressive, as expected from a member of the Drama Club. But this wasn’t the time to admire that. I had backed myself into a corner. What should I do? I spoke, racking my brain frantically as I did. “If he did it, why didn’t he run away after setting the fire?” “That’s easy.” A man in a French sailor cap with silky blond hair stepped forward. “He’s not right in the head.” That was a compelling explanation. Everyone stared at me, and I felt myself break out in a cold sweat. But then, like a miracle, I thought of a logical argument that could prove Samura wasn’t the culprit. All I had to do was sell the explanation. The problem wasn’t whether my logic was sound. It was whether I could lead the audience to my desired conclusion. In other words, I needed to play the role of detective. I took a deep breath and recalled my practice with Miri. “Step away from yourself,” she had said. Then she popped a large piece of wasabi into her mouth and steadied her expression. “Separate yourself from your emotions and feelings. Most importantly, you need to shift your perspective to how the audience sees you so you can observe yourself from afar.” Only then did tears roll down her cheeks as she stuck out her green tongue. I laughed. I separated myself from my nervousness, burying it deep inside. I spoke in a way that would engage my audience. “Let’s start by examining that as a premise.” “Huh?” The man in the sailor cap tilted his head. “Why?” “Because that’s the foundation of logical deduction. A therefore B, B therefore C, and so on. By sequentially extrapolating answers from our premise, we can prove something to be fact or fiction.” I chose some complicated words and spoke with confidence, though I wasn’t entirely sure I was using them correctly. The guy in the sailor cap seemed to understand, so I continued. “Now, the next step is—” I paced like a detective. My practice with Miri had paid off. “If he is the culprit, how did he set the fire?” “Matches, or a lighter…” “In other words, he used some sort of tool?” “Well, he can’t make a fire with his bare hands.” “And does he have any such tools on him?” Sailor Cap acknowledged this and searched Samura from head to toe. “No. He probably got rid of it.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “What?” “Getting rid of the tool used to light the fire would be a deliberate attempt to conceal his guilt. That contradicts our premise, plus he didn’t flee the scene. Therefore, he did not do it.” Sailor Cap was speechless, and Amou stared at me in awe. My heart pounded, not just from nerves but from the joy of acting bubbling up inside me. Samura yelled, tears of relief in his eyes. “Yes, that’s it! I didn’t do it!” “So then, who did?” Sugai reluctantly released Samura and cocked his head. I felt a presence and looked up. The woman I had seen smoking earlier looked down at me, her mouth agape. “Oh,” she said. “Oh,” I replied. Everyone else looked up. The girl disappeared. I dashed inside the building, taking the stairs two at a time. A door slammed shut. I headed toward that sound and opened the door. Three women stood there. Cooking utensils were scattered across the nearest kitchen counter. A plate filled with food rested on a central table. It looked like the Cooking Club. A woman with chestnut brown hair glared at us. “Hey, what are you doing? You can’t just barge in here. And why don’t you have a shirt on?” I noticed Amou standing next to me, followed by other members of the Drama Club. Amou declared, “You there! What was that ‘Oh’ all about? Nothing could be more suspicious!” “Oh, no, see, I…” “That’s suspicious! Do you think subpar acting like that could fool the Drama Club?!” The woman—the real culprit—was obviously acting suspiciously. If we could find evidence of cigarettes in the room, the case would be watertight. I started sniffing around but could hardly smell anything through the aroma of borscht. Observing the surroundings, I asked, “Why keep the windows closed when it’s so hot in here?” I approached the woman and stood by the window, which overlooked a busy area filled with pedestrians. “This table shows no signs of cooking, yet the fan is set to high. Amou, look at this.” I pointed to a little ash that remained on the table and smelled it. “Cigarette ash. I’m certain they closed the windows and turned on the fan to smoke.” I pressed on, everyone stepping aside as I walked into the hall. I pointed to the windowsill where the woman had been smoking. “There’s some ash around here, too. Perhaps the room was too hot, and they opened the window on the less-busy side to smoke.” “How astute! So that’s it! She tossed her cigarette down from up here, and it started the fire. You’re not supposed to smoke anywhere on campus except designated areas!” Amou glared at the women in the Cooking Club. The culprit blurted out, “Hey, you can’t just make stuff up! None of us were smoking! That ash was there already! It was from whoever used the room before us!” “Then we’ll search you to make sure you don’t have any cigarettes!” “Don’t touch me, you weirdo!” Slap! A bright red handprint marked Amou’s chest. “Ow! I’m no weirdo!” Weirdo or not, the scene looked weird. Either way, we were out of luck if they wouldn’t let us search them. I thought for a moment and then examined the sink in front of them. “What are you doing…?” Amou asked. “From the way the ash is scattered beneath the fan, there should have been an ashtray. One big enough that they couldn’t hide it on themselves. If they used pots or plates and washed them, then the vegetable scraps in the sink should have ash on them. And the other sink is bone-dry.” I looked around and transferred some oil from a glass bottle into an empty bowl. “There’s nothing here. A glass ashtray has the same refractive index as oil, so light would pass through it without reflecting, and we wouldn’t see anything inside. Another possibility would be—” I glanced at the soup bowl in front of the culprit, which contained her portion of borscht. The other women’s bowls were empty. “Excuse me.” I picked up a pair of chopsticks and poked a piece of food in the borscht. The woman, the culprit, yelled, “Hey, what the hell are you doing?!” “It’s not cooked all the way through.” “So? What are you, a food critic?!” “Regardless of whether the stove is still on, it seems odd that this is the only bowl with food. If the borscht isn’t done yet, then I have to ask myself: Why—?” I noticed the woman (the culprit) turn pale. She replied, “I was going to make sure it tasted okay…” “I think I see some ash in the borscht.” “That’s just your imagination.” “Then you won’t mind eating some, would you?” The room went silent. The woman slowly picked up her spoon and brought some borscht up to her mouth— “Cigarette ash is extremely poisonous, you know,” I warned. Her hand froze. She slowly returned the spoon to the bowl. “What’s wrong?” I asked pointedly. “…I…don’t feel like eating right now…” “I see.” Gazing at the women standing rigidly, I said, “Well then, I’ll have some.” They exchanged glances for a moment. I took a spoon and the woman grabbed my wrist, stopping me. Then she finally said, “…I’m sorry.” The women hung their heads in dismay. “Well, it looks like the case is solved,” Amou said as we watched Sugai and Sailor Cap lead the female students away. “That was astonishing, Kamisuki. You really are quite the detective.” “Well, it’s not like that.” I scratched my head, feeling embarrassed. “But you were wrong about one thing. Cigarette ash isn’t poisonous.” “I know.” Amou’s eyes lit up. “Of course you do!” He bellowed heartily, slapping me on the back. “Just like an actor! I thought it was the blood-covered guy the whole time! And if not him, then I would have thought that person had done it!” “‘That’ person?” I cocked my head. Nearby, the girl in funky clothes who had been crying spoke up. “Amou… All the sets and everything we worked on have been burned to ash. What do we do now?” “They’re gone, and we can’t do anything about that. But every cloud has a silver lining. I’ve just thought up a new story! It will usher in a new era of theater!” He placed a hand on Samura’s shoulder. Something must have changed his mind because he said, “I’m sorry for doubting you. I apologize wholeheartedly. If you’d like, we’d love to have you join the Drama Club.” “Really?!” Even after everything he had been through, Samura’s eyes shone. “Thank you so much!” Amou then placed a hand on my shoulder. I flinched. “And you, of course, passed the audition as well.” He spun around and declared, “Everyone! Our next play is a mystery. And the lead role is a detective!” A wave of unease washed over me at Amou’s declaration.
Chapter 4
26 min read