Chapter 17: The Diary

The club meeting dismissed, Ōgami Yōsuke slung his bag over a single shoulder, a thoughtful frown etched on his face as he left the activity room. He hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps down the corridor when Junko’s voice called out, and she hurried to catch up.

“Ueno-senpai? Is there something I can help you with?”

His primary impression of Ueno Junko was still welded to the events of June 9th – the day Tanaka Kana’s bloodcurdling scream, upon discovering the body, had drawn Junko to the scene. While Kana had dissolved into hysterics, Junko, a second-year, had displayed a remarkable, almost unnerving, composure and boldness. Not conventionally ‘cute,’ perhaps, but Ōgami found her straightforwardness a refreshing change from the overly saccharine personalities he usually kept at arm’s length.

“Oh, just call me Junko, please! And if it’s alright with you, I’ll call you Yōsuke from now on!” she said, falling into step beside him. From a distance, they might have even looked like a well-suited couple.

Ōgami Yōsuke hesitated, then settled on a polite compromise. “Junko-senpai, was there something specific you needed?”

“Well, not really anything specific,” Junko replied, flashing a bright, disarming smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just that I’m heading towards Takao Ward, and I figured that’s on your way too, right, Yōsuke?” She didn’t give him a chance to demur. “Besides,” she added, a playful pout forming, “I felt like our discussion in the club room got cut a little short. I wanted to chat with you some more, if that’s okay.”

Ōgami Yōsuke nodded slowly. An opportunity. Junko had known Yomikawa far longer than he had. “Junko-senpai,” he began, his voice carefully neutral, “do you, by any chance, have any… particular observations… about our club president’s behavior lately?”

“S-Senpai?” Junko’s eyes widened, a flicker of something – surprise? Suspicion? – in their depths. A brittle, forced laugh escaped her. “Yōsuke, are you… are you very interested in her? W-well, I mean, of course, who wouldn’t be? Senpai is so beautiful, and she’s the president, and her personality is just… wonderful. It’s only natural to be curious about her… I’m the one being strange, aren’t I… ha, haha…”

Ōgami, lost in the labyrinth of his own unsettling thoughts, barely registered the tremor in Junko’s voice. “Didn’t Yomikawa-senpai mention earlier that she was looking forward to my analysis? The thing is, it’s quite the opposite. I was keenly anticipating her insights into Kimura-kun’s ordeal. She possesses such a sharp intellect, such acute observational skills. So why, today, did she only steer the conversation towards… club outings?”

“Eh? Eh-eh?” Junko’s expression did a dizzying three-sixty, from nervous tension to startled bewilderment. “You think… you think Senpai is acting a little… odd? But wait, didn’t you suspect her before? Don’t tell me you’re still dwelling on that? Does her forgiveness mean nothing? Haven’t you reflected on how wrong you were at all?”

Ōgami Yōsuke remained silent. Yomikawa Tsuko’s swift, almost casual, forgiveness had been… disarming. He was grateful, of course. But that persistent sixth sense, that cold knot of unease in his gut, wouldn’t let him rest. It kept prodding, urging him to look deeper, to question the placid surface. So, no, to say he hadn’t reflected on his suspicions at all… that wouldn’t be entirely accurate.

“Senpai is always so considerate of everyone,” Junko pressed, a note of genuine concern in her voice. “She’s reliable, approachable… It’s really not fair of you to think such things. If Takada-kun were to hear you, he’d absolutely lose it again.”

At the mention of Takada, their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of his explosive temper passing between them.

“Takada-kun certainly seems to hold Senpai in high regard, doesn’t he?” Ōgami Yōsuke remarked, feeling the tension ease slightly now that they were out of the school’s oppressive atmosphere, away from prying ears. “It’s rather obvious to everyone, I think.”

Junko giggled, a more natural sound this time. “Well, Senpai is incredible. It’d be stranger if no one had a crush on her. Though, between you and me, I don’t think Takada-kun stands a chance. If he ever confessed, he’d get the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech so fast it would make his head spin. I have no idea what Senpai’s type is, but a simple-minded jock like Takada? Definitely not on the list.”

Her expression shifted then, a spark of avid curiosity lighting her eyes. “Speaking of which… you suspected Senpai was… a murderer? Before? What was all that about? There must have been a reason, right? You can tell me. I promise, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

Ōgami Yōsuke hesitated. The temptation to share his lingering doubts, to voice the inconsistencies that gnawed at him, was strong. But he shook his head. “It was… an incorrect line of reasoning. Based on flawed assumptions. There’s no point in revisiting it.”

“I-Is that so.” Disappointment flickered across Junko’s face, but she quickly masked it with a bright smile. “Oh, well! Hey, about your idea to ask that police officer for help… why don’t we go together? I know we all agreed on the weekend group activity, but we could try to get some official help beforehand. That way, it wouldn’t mess with the club’s plans. What do you think?”

Ōgami Yōsuke’s eyes lit up. This was precisely what he’d hoped for, a more direct path to information. “You’d want to come too, Junko-senpai? That would be… excellent. Today might be too short notice, though. I haven’t even contacted the officer yet. How about… after school tomorrow?”

Yes! A silent cheer erupted in Ueno Junko’s mind. “It’s a plan then! Tomorrow, after school, just the two of us! Our own secret investigation!”

Back in the sterile silence of the villa, Yomikawa Tsuko ran a cold hand over the plaster cast. Several days had passed. It was bone dry now, hard as stone. Tapping it with a fingernail produced a dull, hollow thud.

With meticulous care, she moved the cast to an obscure corner of the bedroom, a place where it was unlikely to be disturbed. If her ‘parents’ were to return and accidentally knock it over, if the plaster were to crack and reveal the grisly contents within… Ōshima Masaki’s skull… that would present a significant, and entirely avoidable, complication.

Ōshima Masaki’s earthly remains will likely never greet the sun again, she mused, a flicker of something cold and distant in her eyes. One less loose end. I do wonder, though, how Senpai and Lord Mask-Taker dealt with Hasebe Koichi’s… head.

The thought of their combined abilities, their shared, insane ambitions – godhood, immortality, the casual reshaping of lives – sent a faint, almost imperceptible shiver down her spine. There was no telling what madness they might unleash next.

However, she reminded herself, her focus narrowing, until the sixth wish is fulfilled, as long as their grand designs do not directly impinge upon my own… I will simply observe. And let them be.

She settled down to the tedious but necessary tasks of studying and completing her homework. By the time she finally pushed the books aside, the clock on the wall read ten. She brewed a cup of fragrant tea, then sat at her desk, her gaze fixed on the old, battered notebook that lay before her. For a long, silent while, she simply stared at its faded cover, lost in thought. Then, with a sudden, decisive movement, she picked up a ballpoint pen and began to write, the ink flowing like a dark river onto the waiting page.

April 8th. Weather: Clear.

I have always maintained that only a fool would commit their innermost thoughts, their true heart, to the vulnerable pages of a notebook. Yet, recently, having made the irrevocable decision to undertake… that particular course of action… I find myself assailed by an unexpected, almost overwhelming, urge. A need to share, to confide, to unburden myself. But, of course, the nature of these… confessions… precludes their utterance to another living soul. And so, after much deliberation, the diary remains my only viable confidante.

It is only now, under these… unique… circumstances, that I begin to perceive a certain… utility… in this archaic practice of diary-keeping.

“Scratch, scratch, scratch…”

The whisper of pen on paper was the only sound in the still, quiet bedroom. Yomikawa Tsuko’s lips were pressed into a thin, determined line. The lamplight cast sharp, elegant shadows across her profile, her expression one of absolute, unwavering concentration.

Time bled away. The words on the page multiplied, a torrent of carefully chosen phrases, meticulously constructed sentences. Her slender fingers guided the pen with a swift, almost unnerving, precision. The more she wrote, the smoother the words flowed. The most effective deceptions, she knew, were always a careful admixture of truth and falsehood. The greater the proportion of verifiable truth, the more potent, the more insidious, the lie became.

And so, regarding the matter of Tanaka Erika’s demise, she saw no need for significant alteration. Beginning with her own… motivation… for the act, she chronicled the events of that period with a chilling, dispassionate accuracy. The truth, or at least, her version of it.

As for the events that followed… those would require a more… creative… approach. Tailored to the specific needs of the situation, as they arose.

But this raw material, once committed to paper, was too valuable, too potent, to be delivered to Kishida Masayoshi all at once. No. First, a carefully selected morsel, a tantalizing crumb, just enough to whet his appetite, to ensure he remained… engaged. Later, when his particular skills were required, the subsequent entries would serve as currency, as payment for his… assistance.

Having completed the first entry, Yomikawa Tsuko retrieved her phone. With a soft “click,” she photographed the handwritten page. She reviewed the image, then frowned. The angle was too precise, the lighting too perfect, the text too starkly clear. She deleted it. Two more attempts, adjusting the shadows, introducing a subtle, almost imperceptible, blur. Yes. That was better. A satisfied nod.

All tasks for the evening complete. She stretched, a slow, feline movement. Eleven o’clock. Time to rest. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, its own opportunities.