“Any one of you could be next. Any given psycho has reason to fear for their personal safety.” The Chair pronounced this gravely, as was his wont.

Murmurs from the various figures on the webcam. “What do you expect us to do?” said the Roadside Strangler. “We can’t exactly go to the police.”

“It’s a trick,” said “Wild Bill.” “They’re trying to get us all in a net by making us nervous and sloppy.”

“You can’t deny that Serpentaurus is dead, any more than you can deny that the cops found The Butcher fried in his own crematorium,” said the Widower, her voice strident, irritated.

“Listen, the very reason we devised the Circle was to support ourselves in our endeavors,” said the Chair. “Nevertheless, it’s clear that whoever strangled Serpentaurus with her own garrote and fed The Butcher to his own inferno must be one of us.”

“Of course it’s one of us, you idiot,” snapped Clowniac. “The Butcher’s own mother didn’t know about his crematorium, and she lived with him!”

“And that is why I’ve decided to take the next logical, if drastic, step,” said the Chair. “I’ve independently funded the Circle from the beginning, and now I offer you this: $100,000 for proof on who it was. Double that if the proof is accompanied by their head. Don’t think you can feel me, either; remember where that money came from.”

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