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Marta sits across from Ransom in the booth, the remnants of her dinner a greasy smear on the white plate. Her hands, clasped together, tremble slightly. She just finished telling him the entire, convoluted, and terrifying story of Harlan’s death. Every detail, every painful truth, spilled out in a rush, unburdened by the need to hide. Now, she waits, the air thick with the silence of her confession.
“It’s crazy,” she says, her voice a near whisper. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s all true. Every word.” She takes a shaky breath, her eyes welling up. “I’m ready to go to jail. I know I have to pay for what I did. I just… I don’t want my mom or Alice to get in trouble. They don’t deserve any of this.”
Ransom leans back, his mouth a thin line as he watches her. He considers her words, his expression unreadable. He could be plotting, judging, or just processing the sheer absurdity of it all. Finally, he speaks.
“My granddad told me something once,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “He said you beat him at GO every time. He said you were the only person who could, more than I ever could.” He holds her gaze, a strange glint in his eye. “He said it meant something to him.”
Marta looks at him, bewildered. Why would he bring up a board game now?
“He was trying to get me to understand something, to be honest,” Ransom continues. “He was trying to tell me that the world isn’t just a series of moves and counter-moves. It’s about who you are when you’re playing the game. And you… he saw something in you.” He shakes his head slightly, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. “You know, he cut me out of the will, and I could have killed him for it. I really could have. But when I realized it was because he wanted me to do things for myself… I felt good about it.”
He leans forward, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m not going to tell on you, Marta. And you’re not going to give up the fortune. We’re in this together. He wanted me to build something from the ground up. I’ll do that, but I’ll do it my way. And you’re the perfect way to start.” He offers her a crooked grin. “I’m going to help you, but first, I have to fool my family and get my inheritance back. Think of it as our first game of GO.”
The promise hangs in the air between them, a fragile lifeline in a sea of chaos. A few minutes later, Marta’s phone buzzes. She pulls it out and sees Meg’s name.
“It’s Meg,” she says, her voice still a little shaky.
Ransom nods, gesturing for her to answer. “You should take it.”
Marta answers the phone, and Meg’s voice comes through, soft and conspiratorial. “Hey, are you okay? I heard what happened. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” Marta stammers. “Just a lot to process.”
“I know,” Meg says. “Listen, can you meet me? At the theatre? The one on Main Street, the old Keiter Center?”
Marta glances at Ransom. “I don’t… I don’t have a ride.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Meg says, her voice taking on a flirtatious, playful tone. “I’m sending one. Just wait outside.”
Marta hangs up and looks at Ransom. “She’s sending a ride.”
Ransom nods, pushing himself out of the booth. He grabs the check. “Sounds like you’re in good hands. Thanks for the escape.”
“No, thank you,” Marta says, reaching into her purse. She pulls out a few crumpled bills and places them on the table. “For my meal.”
Ransom shakes his head, a genuine look of amusement on his face. “Keep it. You’re going to need it.” He glances at the street outside. “Just ride it out for a few days. See what happens.”
Marta watches him walk away, his confident swagger a stark contrast to her own trembling uncertainty. He’s a strange man, she thinks. A very strange man. She walks outside and stands on the sidewalk, the chilly October air biting at her cheeks. A black Aston Martin glides to a stop in front of her, the engine purring like a contented cat. The window rolls down, revealing a handsome man with a kind smile and a concerned expression.
“Do you know Stephen Sondheim?” he asks. “Or Angela Lansbury? Or Natasha Lyonne? Or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar?”
Marta stares at him, bewildered by the seemingly random questions. “I… I know of them.”
The man laughs, a warm, rich sound that fills the small space between them. “Close enough,” he says. “You must be Marta.”
“Yes,” she says, a little confused. “Are you…?”
“Phillip Blanc,” he says, his smile widening. “And I’m taking you to the theatre.”
Marta gets into the car, a knot of confusion and anxiety tightening in her stomach. As Phillip pulls away from the curb, she can’t help but ask the question that’s been on her mind.
“How are you related to the detective?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
Phillip’s smile is gentle, almost shy. “Oh, Benoit?” he says. “He’s my husband.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, and Marta can only stare. Of course, she thinks. Of course he is.
Phillip drives in a comfortable silence, navigating the quiet streets of Natick. The car is a marvel, the leather seats soft, the dashboard a sleek, futuristic display. Soon, the familiar shape of the Keiter Center looms ahead, its brick facade and arched windows lit by the streetlights. Phillip pulls the car around to the back and parks in the employee lot.
“Come on,” he says, leading her to a side door. “He’s waiting for us.”
He pushes the door open, and a wave of warm air, smelling of dust and old wood, washes over them. They walk down a narrow hallway, the sound of their footsteps muffled by a thick, patterned carpet. The faint, melodic sound of a man singing drifts down the hall.
“Losing my mind…” the voice sings, filled with a soulful, desperate yearning. “The morning ends…”
Phillip gestures down the hall, and they walk towards the sound. They stop just before the door to the stage, peeking inside.
The stage is partially set, with a few dusty props scattered around. A single spotlight illuminates Benoit Blanc, who stands at the center of the stage, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored linen suit, a single carnation pinned to his lapel. But it’s not his impeccable appearance that catches her attention; it’s the sheer passion in his voice as he sings.
His eyes are closed, and his face is a study in raw emotion. He isn’t just singing the song; he’s embodying it, pouring his entire being into the melody. He paces back and forth, the lyrics a raw, aching plea. “... not going right, I dim the lights, and think about you..." he sings, his voice rising in a crescendo of uplifting sorrow. “Spend sleepless nights to think about you~”
From the shadows, Phillip watches him, his face filled with utter adoration. His eyes, fixed on Benoit, are soft and full of love. He leans close to Marta, whispering a breath against her ear.
“Sondheim throws these elaborate murder mystery parties for his friends,” he confesses. “Beni absolutely loves the plays. He just gets so invested in them. He even has his own special theme song he sings sometimes.”
Marta nods, mesmerized by the performance. She sees Meg standing in the shadows to their right, her eyes also fixed on Benoit. Meg gestures them over with a small wave, and they move to join her. The trio stands together, watching Benoit. The last notes of the song fade, and he stands there for a moment, motionless, lost in the echo of the melody. Then he opens his eyes, a flicker of surprise as he sees them.
“Beni,” Phillip says softly, his voice full of warmth. He steps forward, closing the space between them. “You were wonderful.”
Benoit’s face softens, the intensity of his performance replaced by a look of profound affection. A small, almost shy smile touches his lips.
“Phillip, my dear,” he says, and without a moment’s hesitation, Phillip reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing it gently. Benoit brings Phillip’s hand up to his cheek, leaning into the touch. “I do apologize,” Benoit says to Marta, his eyes still on his husband. “Sometimes a good song just… overtakes me. The sheer melancholy of it all.”
Phillip chuckles softly and runs his thumb over the back of Benoit’s hand. “It’s beautiful,” he reassures him. “You’re beautiful.”
Benoit’s cheeks flush a light pink, and he lowers his gaze, a hint of bashful charm in his demeanor. “Now, now, Phillip, darling. We have company.”
But Phillip just shakes his head, his smile unwavering. “We can talk about what’s important,” he says, his voice a gentle, loving rumble. “Like how I am going to get a special recording of that song just for me.”
As the two men bask in their own quiet world of affection, Marta turns to Meg, the knot of anxiety in her stomach still tight. “What do I do?” she whispers, her eyes on Benoit. “About the money?”
Meg’s eyes are wide, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “Use it,” she whispers back, her gaze unwavering. “Send your family far away. Get them to safety. I can’t stand being at my school anymore, knowing that it’s all funded through my family’s blood. The foundation they built is a house of cards, and they’re all just waiting for it to fall. But you… you can use it to build something real. Something honest.”
Marta considers her words, a new kind of resolve taking root within her. “When all of this is over,” she says, her voice stronger now, “would you like to run away with me?”
Meg’s eyes widen even more, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her somber expression. She glances at Benoit and Phillip, who are now locked in a private conversation. Benoit leans in close to Phillip, a look of serene contentment on his face.
“Yes,” Meg whispers, her gaze full of a newfound hope. Yes, I would.”