The Probability of Murder

Chapter 1

Aaron Treadman had never been good with numbers. Not as a kid, not in school, and definitely not now, as an adult.

If it weren’t for his fingers and toes, he would have had difficulty counting his fingers and toes.

Who gave a fuck about the other numbers, anyway?

The game seemed simple enough: ten different boxes, ten different numbers inside.

Open five, find your assigned number in one of these, and you can move to the next room.

If all ten contestants find their numbers in the first five boxes they open, closing them before the next player enters the room, they all win one Bitcoin each.

Simple.

Fifty-fifty—had to be. He understood those numbers, too, and knew that these weren’t bad odds.

Aaron was contestant eight, which meant that the first seven had already found their numbers. But it was an all-or-nothing game—the voice over the loudspeaker had told them so.

If even one contestant failed to find their number in the first five boxes they chose, they all lost.

Left with nothing.

Aaron wasn’t planning on losing—this was his chance to finally get ahead.

It didn’t matter that the numbers themselves were all fucked up and random: two, three, seventeen, nineteen.

And thirteen.

That was the number that he’d stuck to his chest, as per the instructions.

The fucking instructions, spoken by some random voice over a wireless speaker.

Aaron had already opened four boxes, none of which contained his lucky number thirteen. He had one more to go.

He moved in front of the box marked seven.

Stared at it, squinted, tried to see through the wooden top to the number inside, the one that really mattered.

He shook his head.

No. Not this one.

Aaron slid to his left—Box Eleven.

Yes. This is it.

He took a deep breath, held it. Reached for the lid, pulled his hand back.

Licked his lips.

It was warm in the small, ten by ten-foot room. Sweat formed on his brow, and he swiped at it with the palm of his hand.

Last chance.

Fuck it.

Aaron opened the box.

Like the other four boxes he’d already looked inside, there was a number within, printed in a large font on a crisp sheet of paper.

Fuck.

“Fuck!”

Number eleven.

Close, but not number thirteen.

Aaron expected the harsh incandescent lights above him to turn red, an alarm to sound. The voice on the speaker to announce: “Sorry, better luck next time!”

Nothing.

Aaron slammed the lid closed, moved to another unopened box.

Twenty-seven inside.

Another: nineteen.

Aaron finally found his number—thirteen—in the second to last box. He snatched the piece of paper, gripped it tightly in one hand.

“Found it! I found thirteen!”

Still nothing.

Aaron noticed a small camera mounted in one corner of the room.

“I found it!” he shouted again, shaking the piece of paper high above his head. “Hey! I found it! Thirteen! That’s my number!” He pointed at his chest, jumped up to make sure the camera got a good shot at the two pieces of paper.

“See?”

No voice, no lights, no alarm.

Aaron took the paper and walked to the door on the right, the winner’s exit. Tried the knob but it didn’t turn.

“Hey! I won!”

Aaron gripped the knob in his calloused hand.

“Hey!”

He tried again, even used his foot to brace himself against the wall for leverage.

“Open the fucking door!”

One last attempt and Aaron dropped the sheet of paper.

Anger swelled.

He reached for one of the small boxes and grabbed it by a spindle-like leg. He swung it against the doorknob. The box shattered while the knob remained intact.

Aaron hoisted another box, smashed it against the knob, too.

His whole body had broken out in sweat now.

Something was wrong. Win or lose, this wasn’t right. Panic welled inside him.

“Open the door! Let me the fuck out! I won! I won!”

Aaron launched the third box at the camera, had to actually throw it to get it high enough. The camera exploded. Glass and plastic rained down.

“Open the—”

Aaron stopped mid-sentence.

He finally heard something.

Not an alarm, but a hiss.

What the fuck is that?

He searched for the source of the sound, realized it was coming from a rectangular vent halfway up the wall. The air around the vent warped his sight lines.

Something was leaking out of it.

“What the—”

Aaron gagged as he was hit by an awful smell, like rotten eggs.

Covering his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, Aaron stepped over the broken wood and glass and tried the doorknob again.

It still wouldn’t open.

Aaron’s stomach lurched and he coughed. His eyes watered and his chest burned. A fire ignited in his lungs.

“Let me the fuck out!”

Aaron gagged again, and this time, he wasn’t able to hold down the vomit that rose in his gorge. He was dizzy, nauseous.

He reached for the door, but missed and staggered forward.

His shoulder struck the wall and he rebounded, collapsing to his knees. He was coughing violently now, every inhale like breathing underwater. Every breath flooded his throat, but this did little to douse the intense burning he felt deep inside his core.

Aaron vomited a second time, and then darkness closed in on him.