Clue The Game Night Day!

You don't know who did it in what room. You don't know what was used as a weapon. You're preoccupied. Claire attempted suicide this morning and you've been in the hospital all day long. They let her out, trusted her to your supervision. But Claire didn't want to see your face. She claims you are the reason she wants to die, the tone of voice you've chosen to adopt when you've spoken to her over the past nine years. Her disgust with you turned to a fury when you foiled her effort to die. She demanded that you get out and that you never come back. Tonight was Clue The Game night at Charles', which you'd assumed you would skip when you found Claire hanging from the exposed pipe in the study (her flailing legs kicked over the computer monitor). But here you are, and Claire is at home, probably dead already, unless she got lost in one of her fits. Had the hospital not trusted you to supervise, they would have kept her there, kept her from hurting herself. And you would have been free to attend Clue The Game night and compete with your opponents to the fullest of your capacities for strategy and cunning. But your mind can only conjure images of what sort of tableau you'll find when you open your front door a half hour after Clue The Game night comes to a close. Your money is on Claire, in the living room, with the pills.

Happy Clue The Game Night Day!