Live From Blackglass (Chapter 4)
Written by Taylor Lee
Genre: Mystery, Murder, and Suspense
Audience: Young Adult to Adult (12+)
Chapter 4: A Twist of a Theory
The air in the conference room smelled like a new car with a hint of lemon zest. This was one of many rooms where business could happen with whoever came to visit the Blackwell Resort. During the show, the conference room is a safe space where the audience can’t see or hear what is going on. The contestants were told that the producers couldn’t know either; that way there is more secrecy in the show.
Devra Lin had dismantled an Ethernet junction box behind a set of cabinets, her lap covered in ribbon cables and a pocket multimeter.
Beside her, Mira Fenn was watching the door, a heavy brass bookend clutched in her right hand.
"Did you get into the local server?" Mira Fenn whispered, her knuckles slightly bruised.
"Almost," Devra Lin muttered. Her screen was streaming lines of hexadecimal code. "The resort has its own isolated fiber ring. But look at this packet log. Look at the timestamps."
Mira Fenn leaned down. "What does it mean?"
"The power cut at midnight wasn't an accident," Devra Lin said, pointing to a spiking graph. "It was triggered from the control room beneath the wine cellar. But here’s the anomaly: the conservatory security cameras didn't fail. They were routed."
"Routed where?"
"To an external storage array," Devra Lin whispered. "The live feed sent static to the network, but the raw footage was saved to an internal solid-state drive labeled DIRECTOR'S ARCHIVE."
Across the room, Elara Voss was turning over the contents of Julian’s leather duffel bag.
"Look at this," Elara said, holding up a small, velvet-lined box she had pulled from the lining of Julian's coat.
Bram Calder walked over, his heavy tread creaking on the floorboards. "What is it?"
Inside the box was an antique brass key stamped with the number 01, and a handwritten note on Blackglass Resort stationery:
Dear Julian, your debt in Monaco is forgiven upon completion of the task. Make it clean. —A.W.
"He had the key," Elara breathed, her eyes wide. "He was the killer. Rake hired him."
"No," Bram Calder said, taking the note and holding it up to the fluorescent light.
"What do you mean, no?" Elara snapped. "It's right there in Rake's handwriting!"
"Look at the ink," Bram Calder said, his voice flat and steady. "It’s fresh ballpoint ink. Rake wrote everything with an antique fountain pen—look at the letters in his study; they’re all iron gall ink with broad nib strokes. This was written within the last six hours. And look at the creases on the paper: it was folded twice, freshly."
"Someone planted it," Mira Fenn said, her voice trembling. "They wanted us to vote for Julian."
"Not just someone," Devra Lin said, her laptop suddenly beeping with a harsh red warning. "Look at the access logs for the digital locks on the guest rooms. Julian’s room was unlocked from the master terminal at eleven thirty."
"Who has access to the master terminal?" Micah asked, entering from the hall. His scrub top was stained with Julian’s blood; his face was gaunt, hollowed out by shock.
"The control room," Devra Lin said. "Dorian Kells. And the executive producer, Maelin Cross."
"And Eamon," Bram Calder added grimly.
"Why would the producers frame Julian?" Elara asked, pacing the floor, her mind spinning through corporate conspiracy theories. "If Julian didn't kill Rake, then why stage the note?"
"Because Julian was an easy target," a voice said from the shadows near the mezzanine stairs. “The producers had a plan before we even arrived!”
Oren Vask stepped into the room more. He held a half-eaten green apple, carving small slices off with a pocketknife.
"In chess," Oren Vask said quietly, "you sacrifice a knight to open a file for your rook. The show needed a death on night one to prove the stakes were real. Julian had a criminal record. The audience at home wouldn't cry for a swindler. The producers gave the viewers what they wanted: a villain punished."
"Which means," Micah said, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper, "the killer is still in this house for sure, but who?"
Oren Vask looked over at Micah with a chuckle.
"The killer…might not even be in this room," Oren Vask replied, popping a slice of apple into his mouth.
End of Chapter 4
Chapter 5 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.
