It had been a normal Wednesday evening in the White’s home. Dinner was being prepared in the kitchen as Mr. White played a song he’d composed on the piano. Victoria, the oldest child, rested in a chair by her father, examining his fingers as they danced gracefully across the black and white keys. Beside Victoria was her mother, whose body swayed gently to the music as she hemmed one of her husband’s suit coats. The sound of the door interrupted the family’s peaceful afternoon. Peter, who had been reading in the other room, answered the sound.
Mr. White was soon standing behind his son, greeting the visitor with an inviting grin. Peter took the man’s coat and hung it on the wall.  Mr. White had led the guest into the front room, “Everyone, this is Wayne Hill, an old friend of mine from college.” Mr. White stated happily. It was rare for anyone to visit the White household.
“It’s very kind of you to have me, George. What a lovely family you have.”
  The smile along Mr. White’s mouth widened, “This is my wife, Elizabeth, and our two children, Victoria and Peter.”
“It’s very good to meet you all.” Mr. Hill said enthusiastically. He began telling stories about himself; what he was doing with his life, interesting things that had happened in his childhood. There was a sense of peace throughout the room, very calm and warm. Mr. Hill was not interrupted until Dinner.
The family and their guest sat around the elegantly set table. The well-dressed man walked in carrying a platter with wine glasses on top. He placed a glass in front of each person, then left. Mr. Hill took a sip of his drink, “You have more money than I thought!” He laughed. George White joined in almost immediately, Elizabeth beamed. Neither Peter nor Victoria looked pleased.
George White had recently lost his father, don’t be too sad, this led to the White’s getting a significantly large amount of money. Mr. White happened to use this money very different than either of the children would have wanted him to. He wasted it on wine, new furniture, and new suits. If he kept up with his spending, the children would have nothing to inherit when their father passed away.
The chatter was halted when the phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”   Mr. White apologized to his guest. When he arose, he was graceful, contrasting with the way Peter got up, following his father out of the room.
“I’d better go check on dinner. The cooks never take this long.” Ms. White excused herself, then exited into the kitchen.
Now alone with Victoria, Mr. Hill asked, “How old are you?”
“Older than Peter.” It was not right for Victoria to talk this way. Her mother always reprimanded her, but she absolutely hated people. Anything that felt emotions and spoke to her, she despised; especially her father's friends. They were disgusting, worrying about if she was planning on marrying anyone soon, or what she did in her spare time. They ogled over her, taunting themselves, like they had a chance to marry Victoria White.
“How old is Peter, then?”
“Younger than I am. Are we done here, Mr. Hill. I’m not sure what you want, but I’ve been around enough of my father’s acquaintances. Do not speak to me unless my father is present,” she’d said this same speech to nearly ten other men.
Mr. Hill nodded, then noticed something odd. Victoria made a face as she choked on her drink; it looked as though she was swallowing acid. “Are you okay, Victoria?”
She coughed in answer, then fell onto the ground.
“Victoria?” Wayne Hill filled with unfathomable panic. He raced down to his knees, hunching over the girl’s body. She was dead, poisoned, and the White’s would think he had been the one to kill her. He hadn’t moved until Mr. White and his son entered the dining room.
“Elizabeth!” Mr. White called out immediately, leaning down to observe his fallen daughter.
“I promise I didn’t do anything. She took a sip of her drink and-”
Ms. White walked into the room, stopping Mr. Hill’s frantic sentence. It only took her one glance before she began sobbing. Peter stumbled to the heartbroken woman, wrapping an arm around her heaving shoulders.
“Damned butler.” Mr. White spat. He stood up and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Go to your room. Your mother and I will sort this out.” The boy pried himself from his mother, his jaw clenched. Peter was enraged.
“Can’t you see it was your guest? Look at him! He’s so nervous, and he was alone with Victoria.” Peter’s eyes were wild, preparing to kill Wayne Hill the second he admitted to poisoning his sister.
“George, you have to understand that I would never-”
“I think it’s best if you leave. Our family needs time to mourn, and if my son is right, you’d better hurry.” Mr. White kept his composure rather well, but the rage was beginning to fill him now. What if his son was right? He wouldn’t be able to control himself.
“My condolences.” Mr. Hill stood up.
“You can’t just let him leave! The maniac could have been the one that murdered Victoria!” Peter pushed his way past his father, then placed himself in front of the doorway. “You are not going to leave until I know that you were not the one who did this.”
“Peter!” Ms. White reprimanded, patting her face with a handkerchief.
“I can assure you, Peter, it wasn’t me.” But Peter was relentlessly stubborn. He refused to move.
“Peter, go find the butler, it had to have been that rat!” Mr. White’s lip twitched with anger, his voice raised louder, but then he relaxed. Peter’s rage was not as easily controlled.
“I’d kill him, but it wasn’t the butler.” Peter’s voice was firm, his eyes staring dead into Mr. Hill’s. “No one else was poisoned, why would the butler have any reason to kill just Victoria?”
“Please, George, may  we at least do this in the other room?” Ms. White begged, looking down at her daughter’s body.
“Yes, of course.” Ms. White retreated through the kitchen entrance, but Peter refused to let anyone leave through his door. “Peter, we can accuse him in the other room. Go.”
Reluctantly, the boy took one last glance at his sister, swallowing his disgust as he walked into the front room. Mr. Hill followed behind, very carefully. George remained in the room, kissing Victoria on the forehead and saying his final goodbyes.
Peter was infuriated. He sat across from Mr. Hill eyeing him with a look that might have killed the man if allowed to proceed.
“Peter!” As distraught as Ms. White was, she couldn’t help but yell at Peter. He was being rather irrational if you asked her.
“I don’t understand, why can’t you see it was him?”
“Peter, can you tell me with one hundred percent certainty that it was Mr. Hill?” Elizabeth asked, curious to hear what Peter had to say?
“Well sure I can,” Peter was gnawing at the insides of his cheeks, “He was alone with Victoria, and who else could it have been? The butler loved her, same with the cooks. You know I didn’t do it, so unless it was you or-”
“Help!” Both Peter and Mr. Hill stood abruptly.
“George?” Mr. Hill asked, walking towards the dining room. Peter bolted down the hall, stopping dead in his tracks once he reached his destination. George White lay on the ground, eyes gouged out.
“My God,” a voice whispered behind Peter. There was no way that Mr. Hill had killed his father. A brief smirk broke through Peter’s face.
“We have to tell my mother, then we’d better leave the house.” Peter was stern; he would not accept any contradictions to his plan.
Rushing through the halls again, Peter found himself running into the corners of walls, deep in his mind, he knew what he would find. He stopped, and Mr. Hill ran into him. “What is it this time?” His eyes were looking for the body.
“Wayne, I don’t want to see my mother if she’s dead.” Peter was nearly silent in his plead, but Mr. Hill nodded accordingly.
“Do you have a backdoor you’d like to go through?”
“It’s this way,” Peter led Mr. Hill through the house, purposefully avoiding the kitchen. Peter couldn’t help but wonder, did the cooks know about the murders, or were they already dead? The boy and his guest finally reached the exit, but a disturbing problem presented itself. In front of the door sat Victoria, a cruel grin on her curled mouth.
“Why, look who’s suddenly befriended our visitor,” In her hands she held a butcher knife. Her fingers slid up the sides, wiping off the crimson liquid.
“How?” Mr. Hill’s mouth hung open, he eyed the knife as though the second he blinked it would be inside his heart. “I watched you die.”
“No, Honey, you watched me pretend to die. No one even bothered to check my pulse.” Although she was answering Mr. Hill, her eyes stared deep into Peter’s.
“Who’s left?” Again, Peter’s words made hardly any sound.
“Just the two of you, but I only intend to kill Wayne.” A joy welled up in her demeanor, and she beamed.
“Victoria, please, why?” Mr. Hill pleaded, but the girl was already on her feet, and Peter had stepped back, offering no form of protection.
“I wish I was sorry, Wayne. You seemed like a rather nice man.”