Opus

7. Ball

"Danny Rover was found dead in his house on the island late last night. Preliminary reports indicate Mr. Rover, a well-known entrepreneur, may have suffered a heart attack. Semi-retired for the last few years, Mr. Rover is survived by his wife, Alice, and their three children, David, 16, Mary, 14, and Noah, 12. Many will better remember Danny Rover, also called the Rover, as the Competition's winner of..."

My attention fades out at this point of the news bulletin. I'm already convinced the killer has gotten another one. With Ken's four, then Ken himself, and the other two that are missing in action, Rover makes it the eighth kill for my mysterious wee−no capitals; the sonofabitch does not deserve them−a.k.a. winner eliminator extraordinaire.

Some people need a life, present company included. But a promise is a promise. Little did I know when, at the venerable age of twelve, I swore to Ken that I would have his back.

He'd disagree with that story too. He only accepted my engagement because he wanted to swear his allegiance to me. He was seventeen, all gangly limbs and romantic soul. That day, he branded my crest on his left shoulder blade with a red-hot iron. The dick. Needless to say, I buried my royal seals in the woods that day. I didn't need another fool messing around with those relics.

"At least, he died of natural causes." Of the three of us, Gavin is the most gullible.

"That's one less player for you to keep track of, Caelina." And Bree is the most cynical.

As for me? I'm just along for the ride. "I wish Ken had kept his mouth shut." Although Ken bequeathed me copies "for my eyes only" as he'd written in his testament, of everything he'd found during his investigation, I later learned he'd shared the gist of his, uh, mission with the super duo. Ken was an oversharer in bed.

In this instance, both brother and sister are wrong. Rover was fit as a fiddle. I've read the report of his last medical exam, dated less than two months ago. He had the heart of a twenty-year-old. Cardiac arrest my ass. Wee, the sneaky bastard, is moving up in the murdering world. From crude rifle to handgun to knife to drugs.

"And no, I'm not keeping watch of every single living winner." Who has the time? I only know of them. I know where they live, and with whom. I know about their families, their jobs, hobbies, health, etc., mostly thanks to Ken. I did work on his surveillance files, though, since the jerk died without completing his damn mission. It turns out most of the winners work for the Competition. Excellent wages, plenty of free time, an endless list of benefits.

Rule 14: Once a player, always a player! Unless found in breach of any one of the Competition's rules, winners' and players' privileges are allotted for life. Please note that privileges are non-transferable to others (including but not restricted to other winners, players, next of kin).

But I repeat, I do not monitor past winners. They hold no interest for me−Have I mentioned how much I abhor the game? The winners are a means to my ultimate end. Wee.