Harlan Thrombey is dead.

It’s no surprise, really. He was old, and it was getting close to his time. The only thing is.. it was a suicide. And that had every member of the Thrombey family shaken, scared of what that could mean. And then a detective showed up.

Benoit Blanc. Renowned detective with a silly southern accent that really got the point across. Especially when he started investigating a crime that had already been solved. Sitting in the back, listening to the interrogations that the officers performed on your family. You’d heard things about the man himself. How he sat there silently, how any time they said something he didn’t believe he’d play the high A on the piano he sat next to, earning concerned glances from both the officers and your family.

But you knew the Thrombeys. You knew how they lied through their teeth and swept it all under the rug and kept it all quiet. You knew that Harlan himself opposed their ways, how they acted, how they bluffed. It was absurd. You and Marta were the only ones that agreed with him, that listened.

Harlan’s death startled everyone. A suicide? In his own study? On the night of his birthday? He would never do that, according to Linda. There had to be fowl play involved. And realistically... you agreed with her.

Well, I don’t know. I don’t know what you said or didn’t say. I don’t know who you are, really. I’m just here to write the story. It’s not my business if you killed Harlan, or if you’re working with Ransom, or if you’re even related to the Thrombey’s. I don’t care. That’s not my job. And I’m not going to ask any further questions about it.

...But Benoit Blanc is.

———————————————

It’s late. Still light outside, but late enough for the crickets to chirp in the cold air of the winter. The dogs rest outside of the house, ready to bark at whatever makes it way out of the forests around the Thrombey Mansion.

Benoit Blanc sits in the sunroom, too focused in his workings to notice the late hour. He stares down at the papers strewn across the glass table in the centre of the small room, before shaking his head and standing up.

The detective glances outside, spotting the setting sun and sighing quietly. He’ll have to go home soon, and lose sleep over this damn case. It didn’t make any sense — a suicide that had already been solved, and yet he had been called in by an anonymous letter and a random payment. Who on earth wanted him to solve an already solved case??

He was startled out of his thoughts when he heard something fall over outside of the sunroom, just past the door. He walked over, opening it up and peeking his head out, only to be greeted with the sight of.. nothing. Just a knocked over book and the lingering hairs of a cat.

He shut the door behind him as he entered the sunroom once more, a small grumble escaping him as he fidgets with his tie.

“It just doesn’t make any sense..”

He mumbles, his heavy southern accent flowing through the room. Another few minutes of him thinking goes by, the silence in the room both a comforting and frustrating presence. But eventually, there’s a knock at the door. He flinches, walking over and opening it up.

You.