Momma's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Momma leads a family called Plot Twist, and tonight someone in it turned killer. She stood over the body in the pool room, holding a scrap of torn fabric. The dead guest had clutched it. Momma meant to catch the murderer before another guest died, but the scrap told her nothing. Red and gold thread, cut clean. She turned it in her pink glow. Any of twelve guests could have worn it. The mansion had trapped them all for a game. Now the game had a corpse. Momma gathered the living in the hall. She held the scrap high so they could see it. "One of you left this behind," she said. "Show me your costumes." They came one by one. Waffles pushed his sunglasses up and studied her instead of the scrap. "You watch people, man. So do I. Whoever did it stayed calm." His plaid shirt held no tear. Mya Star turned in place, her sparkly dress catching light. No gold. Connie lifted her dark red gown and showed the hem. Clean. Toast stood still, suspenders and green cap, no fabric to match at all. Then Kaylee stepped up. Her red gown ran with gold thread down the side. Momma's chest tightened. She had known Kaylee for years. She raised the scrap to the gown's torn seam. It fit. The threads lined up. Red into red, gold into gold. The room went quiet. Kaylee looked down at the tear and her hands began to shake. "I ripped it on the pool room door," she said. "Hours ago. I swear I did." Momma held the two edges together. The match was exact. But she pressed the scrap flat and saw the cut. "This wasn't torn," she said slowly. "It was cut with a blade. Someone cut a piece from your gown while you wore it." Waffles leaned in. "So they framed her. Smart. Pin it on the loud dress." Momma's certainty broke apart. The clue had worked, and it had lied. The real killer had planned this. They had watched Kaylee snag her gown, then cut the proof and pressed it into a dying hand. "You're clear," Momma told Kaylee, and the girl sank against the wall. Then a scream came from the kitchen. Momma ran. Toast and Waffles followed. On the tile lay a second guest, still warm, one hand open. Inside the open hand sat a fresh scrap. Purple. Sparkly. Momma knew that fabric. It was her own dress. She pressed her palm to her hip and felt the small cut in the sparkle where a blade had passed. The killer had marked her now. And every guest in that hall had just watched her clear one suspect. The next body would point at Momma herself.