Live From Blackglass (Chapter 3)

Written by Taylor Lee

Genre: Mystery, Murder, and Suspense

Audience: Young Adult to Adult (12+)

Chapter 3: The First Vote

A long table of black marble stretched forty feet beneath three iron chandeliers. At the head of the table, Dorian Kells stood beside a production monitor on a mobile tripod.

"Twelve minutes of total blackout," Marcus said, looking directly into the camera crane hovering above them. "Twelve minutes during which any one of you could have ascended the back service stairs, entered the conservatory, and claimed the inheritance."

"He was already dead when the lights died," Nessa said, her voice shaking with rage. She was staring at Eamon, who stood behind the table like a headwaiter at a state dinner. "The blood on his collar was already separating. It didn’t look that fresh. I know butchery. I know how blood cools. He was killed before the chime!"

"An intriguing theory," Marcus smiled, his face gleaming with matte television powder. "The viewers on our live feed are currently voting on whether Chef Okafor’s forensic knowledge makes her our prime suspect."

"This is bullshit!" Mira Fenn screamed, slamming both hands on the table. "You recorded the whole thing! You have forty cameras in this house! Look at the tapes!"

"The footage from the north corridor between eleven fifty-five and twelve twenty has suffered an unfortunate technical glitch," Marcus replied smoothly. "Which brings us to our first elimination."

Eamon stepped forward.

With deliberate grace, he lifted the cloth covering the large silver tray.

Ten crystal glasses stood on the tray. Each was filled to the brim with a deep, ruby-red liquid that smelled faintly of wild cherries and bitter almonds.

"The rules of Blackglass are simple," Eamon said, his voice echoing in the vast room. "Every evening at ten, the contestants must cast a ballot to see who is the killer. The person with the most votes will step forward. If they are the killer, a new murder must take place. If they are not the murder they can drink from the cups and potentially walk away with some money."

"And if we refuse to vote?" Arden asked, her legal training fighting against the terror clawing at her throat.

"Then all ten of you will drink in front of the camera, with no idea how many have the poison, and whoever is left leaves with nothing!" Eamon replied.

A heavy silence descended.

"One glass," Eamon continued, gesturing with an open palm toward the tray, "contains three ounces of purified spring water tinted with harmless beet extract. At the bottom of that glass rests a rolled slip of waterproof paper: a cashier’s check for one million dollars and safe passage to the mainland. The other nine glasses contain sixty milligrams of liquid taxine. Death occurs within four minutes due to cardiac arrest."

"This is madness," Micah whispered.

"I am an employee, Mr. Shah," Eamon said. "Mr. Rake's will is registered with the probate court in Delaware. The trust executes automatically, and you have the option to leave whenever you want!"

"We vote Julian," Elara said suddenly.

Julian turned his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You moved in the dark," Elara said, her voice hard, her journalist’s instincts locking onto him like a hound. "When the lights went out, you were by the fireplace. When they came back on, you were near the hallway door. You had the silver cigar cutter—you know how to handle surgical steel."

"I moved because I didn't want a knife in my kidney, you idiot," Julian spat. "If I killed him, why would I leave the body for the butler to find?"

"Because you had an accomplice," Oren Vask said, his fingers drumming a rapid rhythm on the marble. "Or because you're arrogant."

"Let's vote," Arden said, her voice cracking slightly. "We have to follow the procedure. If we don't vote, we all drink. I'm not dying for Julian Kest."

"Wait!" Micah shouted. "We don't know he did it! We have five hours until dawn! We can look for the weapon's sheath! We can check the service doors!"

"The ballots have been submitted through the buttons on the table," Dorian Kells announced, pointing to the illuminated LED pads embedded in the table before them.

A digital chime rang out.

On the large wall monitor, the numbers flickered and resolved:

CASSIAN REED: 6 VOTES
MARA VESEY: 2 VOTES
BEATRICE OKAFOR: 1 VOTE
ABSTAIN: 1

Julian stared at the screen. The smugness vanished from his face, replaced by a dreadful look. "You fools. You absolute fools."

Eamon stepped forward, holding the silver plate out toward Julian.

"Select your cup, Mr. Reed."

Julian’s hand trembled as he reached toward the glasses. His fingers hovered over the left cup. Then the right.

He looked at Micah. "Shah. You're a medic. Tell me which one doesn't have the smell."

"They all smell like cherries," Nessa whispered, tears burning her eyes. "The cherry extract masks the bitter almond scent of the alkaloid. You can't smell it, Julian. Don't do it. Walk to the door!"

"If he walks through the door, the contract executes the forfeiture clause," Arden said, her voice tight, tears leaking down her cheeks. "He gets nothing."

"Better nothing than the morgue!" Micah yelled, lunging toward Julian.

Two private security guards in black tactical gear stepped from the shadows behind the cameras, their taser batons crackling with blue electrical fire. Micah froze.

Julian closed his eyes.

He picked the middle glass on the left.

He brought it to his lips. He swallowed it all in one long, desperate gulp.

He lowered the glass.

For five seconds, nothing happened.

Julian opened his eyes. A ragged laugh broke from his throat. "It's... it's just water. You bastards. It's just—"

He choked.

His hands flew to his throat. His knees buckled, striking the marble floor with a sickening crack.

Julian’s back arched violently. A sound like a torn bellows tore from his lungs. Foam, pink and frothy, bubbled from his lips. His fingernails clawed at the flagstones, splintering against the rock.

"Julian!" Micah threw himself onto the floor, pulling Julian onto his side, tearing open his shirt. "Pupils dilated! I need atropine! Get me an emergency kit!"

Eamon Vey did not move. He stood with the tray, watching the convulsions with the placid attention of a gardener watching rain.

Dorian Kells looked directly into the camera.

"One down," the host said into his lapel. "Nine remain. We will return after this commercial break."

Julian’s body shuddered once, went rigid, and lay still.

The other 9 panicked as reality set in. The producers weren’t bluffing. Everyone kept still like a statue in disbelief as the camera stopped rolling.

End of Chapter 3

Chapter 4 will be published soon

©2026 TaylorLeeMedia LLC and its affiliates. All rights reserved.

This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.