For as far back as he could remember, he’d been the one in charge of feeding it.
He thought that was probably the only reason he was allowed to live in that house. After all, on the rare occasions when his stepdad came home and silently left money on the table, it was always just enough for the food.
The wallpaper in the house was yellowed. The fluorescent bulbs almost never got changed, so it was gloomy inside even during the day. The air conditioner was on its last legs, and its moan sounded like the howl of some strange beast. Every time he heard it, he glanced up to the second floor.
There was a monster upstairs.
On his way home from grade school, he’d stop by the convenience store for stuffed rolls and rice balls, then hang the bag on the second-floor doorknob. That was his job.
At some point, though, he stopped being able to do it.
The money had run out. By then, his stepdad almost never came home at all. Every now and then, as if on a whim, he left bags from the supermarket hanging on the front doorknob. They were the only sign that he was even alive.
And so he stole the food his stepdad sent, taking it for himself.
By then, even getting up in the morning felt like too much work, so he’d stopped going to school. He spent most of the day in the house, hugging his knees and spacing out. It wasn’t long before his greasy hair began to cling to his neck and the T-shirt he hadn’t washed for ages turned a dingy, stewed color.
When he was like that, he felt as if he’d become the monster upstairs.
Those were the only times he felt as if he belonged in that house. As if he was someone his family fed, someone they kept alive.
However, one night, the monster came down.
He hadn’t taken a bath for quite a while, and his face was speckled with black grime. His hair, which was long enough to brush the shoulders of his oversized hoodie, was stiff with dust and grease.
At that point, the boy remembered his job.
He’s going to kill me, he thought.
He’s going to eat me.
And so when the monster asked him, “Are you hungry?” he nodded.
“I see.” The monster nodded back. Then he returned to the second floor.
That was all.
That was when his big brother hung himself.
✦ ✦ ✦
Four people left.
Or rather, if Seiji was counting sinners and excluding Shiroshi the detective, it was just three.
If two or more of the sinners subject to execution are still alive when the train reaches its destination, as the detective, you will win. However, if only one survives, or if there are no survivors at all, you will have lost.
Seiji thought back over the conditions for victory Takamura had given them.
Besides him, only two of the passengers who’d been accused by the phonograph were left. Since one of those was the executioner, there was essentially only one person they had to protect.
If that person died, Shiroshi’s defeat would be assured.
They were down to their last chance.
No, more than that, more than anything—
What part of this is a game?!
When this many people had vanished or been killed in the span of a single night, how could it possibly be called a duel?
Sure, they were probably despicable sinners, Seiji included. On top of that, they’d been given the option of confessing their sins and atoning.
Even so, this was the work of an oni, an inhuman fiend.
As Seiji thought about that, a question occurred to him.
Ibara’s and Shiroshi’s lives are on the line in this game, but what does tonight mean for the executioner, Ibara’s proxy?
Just then…
“It’s time I gave you an explanation as well, Seiji.”
The sound of Shiroshi’s voice brought Seiji back to the present with a jolt.
They were in Room 202, Tosu’s compartment.
After discovering that Ms. Nomura had vanished, they’d searched Room 301 thoroughly but hadn’t found a single clue. In the meantime, Tosu’s condition had visibly deteriorated, so they’d made an emergency retreat to his compartment. That said, it wasn’t as if they had any medicine. They’d suggested that he at least lie down on the bed, but he’d flatly refused.
Seiji thought he might feel a little better if he drank some water, but since it could be poisoned, he said he wouldn’t. There was simply nothing to be done.
“We raced to Room 301 earlier because I’d let Mr. Tosu listen to your conversation with Ms. Nomura,” Shiroshi began.
“Huh? So you told him about this?” Flustered, Seiji took a miniature radio transceiver from the inside pocket of his jacket.
This was their trump card, the “barrier countermeasure” that Shiroshi had procured.
Since the barrier prevented any communication with the outside world, their smartphones were useless. However, radio transceivers with reduced output power didn’t go through a relay station, so they could be used inside the barrier.
In addition, Seiji was wearing an earpiece made to look like a cuff so that Shiroshi could give him instructions without anyone catching on.
“If you’re awake, please look out the window.”
That was how he’d heard Shiroshi when he’d regained consciousness in the library. However, if Shiroshi had told Tosu about that, it meant…
“Um… You’re sure it’s okay to trust him?”
After all, he was a genuine fake detective. On top of that, he’d framed Seiji for murder and knocked him out. Shouldn’t they pay him back for that, with change?
“It appears he is an active police detective, you see. One who is affiliated with Division One of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, at that.”
“…Huh?”
Hold it. Wait just a second. What was up with that shocking revelation?
“Y-you’re kidding me, right?”
“No, it’s true. Granted, he isn’t carrying his police badge at the moment, but…” Shiroshi took a business card from the breast of his kimono. It was the Rindou Detective Agency card that Tosu had flashed around. “First, there’s the fact that Odoro’s business card isn’t a forgery. Since Odoro offers his services exclusively by introduction, very few people would be able to obtain a genuine card. That would include his clients and individuals with a connection to his investigations, as well as members of the police force, with whom he cooperates regularly.”
I see. Seiji nodded.
Of those two, it seemed unlikely that Tosu was connected to an incident. Odoro didn’t have an atom of mercy for sinners. He’d never turn a blind eye if a candidate for damnation showed up as someone related to a case. Maybe a card he’d given to a member of the Metropolitan Police Department—a regular client—had found its way into Tosu’s hands.
“The most decisive piece of evidence was the fact that the handcuffs he used to restrain you were stamped with the rising sun crest. In other words, they weren’t a replica; those were real. To be honest, I was already quite suspicious when he started using martial arts.”
Seiji’s curiosity finally got the better of him; he turned to Tosu, who was slumped in an armchair. “Um, excuse me. How old are you, Mr. Tosu?”
“Thirty-one.”
…When you took being baby-faced that far, it was fraud.
“But if you’re not the executioner, why did you claim to be the detective?”
“I figured the detective would have the easiest time controlling the passengers, so the executioner would probably say they were the detective instead. In fact, you were the most suspicious ones here, and it turned out to be you.” Tosu hunched over, coughing and hacking. He really was in bad shape.
If nothing else, though, one thing absolutely had to be said.
“We’re not the executioner.”
“I do think you’re the only one who could have killed Godou. Even if you weren’t the one who killed Ishizuka.”
“Huh?” Seiji blinked at him, bewildered. “Y-you don’t think I’m the one who killed…?”
Tosu nodded briefly. “Right; it wasn’t you. From the look of the corpse, Ishizuka was shot with a smaller caliber gun. Something weak enough that it couldn’t blow his head off unless he was shot at point-blank range. Besides, it would be pretty unnatural for a criminal who was called to a crime scene to saunter in with the gun he’d just used. That means someone else used a gun specifically to turn suspicion on you.”
“Th-then that somebody else is—?”
Before Seiji finished his question, the answer hit him with a jolt. He didn’t even have to think about it now. There had been only two potential executioners left. If it wasn’t Tosu, it had to be…