murder they wrote. indigo & violet !

The crunch of a good, plain potato chip was comforting, a sense of familiarity in uncharted waters. Indigo didn’t doubt that more than a few of his housemates would head to the bar for a stiff drink after seeing what they saw. They were no strangers to violence, they saw tributes die on screen every year after all. But this was different. Personal. Commentators never talked about how empty a person’s eyes looked in death, or the way the smell permeated the room. The smell of death was a conglomerate of drying blood, vacated bowels and a sense of wrongness.

He had his suspicions of course, but for the moment it seemed best to play his cards close to his chest. At least he had nothing to fear from Violet. He’d ruled her out as the murderer fairly quickly, and he doubted that the real killer would see any point in framing her either. He listened to her words as he stirred the drink in front of him and held a conversation with himself. It was a blade certainly, but had it been a knife? It could have been scissors, a sharpened stiletto, or anything sharp enough really.

“I try not to assume, my dear Violet. It makes an ass out of you and me,” he quipped at last as he handed her the mint chocolate milkshake he’d promised. “But I thank you for your confidence in me.” Indigo munched on another chip and reviewed the body in his mind’s eye. She was wrong about one thing though; it wasn’t a laceration. It was a puncture wound.

The knife would have been sticking out of his throat as he collapsed. Whether or not they stuck around to watch him bleed out was another matter. Certainly, they must have to ensure his passing. Indigo paused, considering the angle of the wound. It could say a lot about the height of the killer.

Then again, angles were easily altered by shoes, crouching, and the length of one’s arms. If the killer was as intelligent as he thought, the smartest move would be to remove the greatest obstacles first. Blaine and Harvey were the physically strongest out of their dirty dozen, and removing them first would ensure that the others had less of a fighting chance.

And the ones with the best shot at figuring things out were Amrin, Fiora and…well, himself.

If any of the above were the next victim, it would narrow his suspects considerably. If not, it would prove that Malcom’s murderer was a killer of opportunity; which would still narrow his suspects considerably. Just in a different train of thought. “I hypothesize that this was a crime of passion. I very much doubt there was forethought. Rational minds don’t decide to kill someone in a house with a dozen others.” Not unless they planned to kill of us, he added silently. No need to freak anyone out yet. "What we need to do,” he went on, “Is establish a motive.”