You were a member of the Thrombey family, so your presence at Harlan’s 85th birthday celebration— held, as always, at his sprawling estate — wasn’t in question. The night had been loud, indulgent, and steeped in the kind of tension that only family could disguise beneath forced smiles and raised glasses.

The shock came the following morning. Fran found Harlan dead in his study, his throat slit. Whatever warmth the previous night had held evaporated instantly.

A week later, during the memorial for the late Harlan, the police decided to conduct interrogations one by one, taking advantage of the fact that all potential witnesses were still gathered in the same place.

Soon enough, you were called into one of the estate’s more spacious rooms, temporarily repurposed as an interrogation area. The air felt heavier there, stripped of the house’s usual warmth. Two police officers were already waiting inside.

Lieutenant Elliott sat on the sofa by the table, posture relaxed, notebook in hand. Trooper Wagner lingered just beside him. They introduced themselves calmly as you took a seat in the chair across from them.

Before either officer could ask a single question, another voice cut through the room. It belonged to a man leaning casually in the shadows by the grand piano, his posture far too relaxed for a potential murder investigation.

“So, which one are you?” he drawled, the hint of a Southern accent threading through his calm, measured tone.