Page 28 of Girl, Accused

The Confessor had believed in complexity once. Had trusted systems and institutions, had faith in justice's slow machinery. That was before watching Mother die while doctors debated insurance coverage. Before seeing Grant walk free. Before understanding that complexity was just camouflage for corruption.

The truth revealed itself not in a blinding flash but in the slow accumulation of betrayals large and small. The world ran on lies, fueled by the collective agreement to pretend not to notice. Just last week, the Confessor had watched a family at a table in Wendy’s. Parents and three children. They all stared at phones, no one speaking, occasionally reaching for fries without looking up. Separate universes inhabiting the same space.

That's when the first whisper had come. Not an audible voice, but a certainty forming in the mind:

It’s time to put the plan into action.

Five years of research was about to come to a head. A part of the Confessor had never intended to reallyusethis research. Thought that maybe just collecting dirt on these targets would be enough to satiate the rage. But the voice had spoken, and now two bodies in, there was no turning back. All was left was to clean the branding iron and attach the new head, then it was time to continue the mission.

Medieval justice at its finest.When you branded a thief, everyone knew their crime. When you marked an adulterer, their sin became public record. No hiding, just the truth imprinted in fire.

Tonight, a new sinner would have their sins broadcast in flesh.

L and P had taken their final bows, and now another letter waited in the wings.

The spider from this morning had probably found a new home by now. The Confessor hoped it had. Every creature deserved a chance at redemption.

Some just needed a little more guidance than others.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In her office, Ella had spent the past hour becoming intimate with the minds of strangers via Evelyn Summers' handwritten notes. Ripley was making calls somewhere outside because the poor cell signal in their office was not conducive to communicating with potential murder suspects.

Ella had gone through fifteen pages, some filled from margin to margin with what Summers probably thought was linguistic brilliance, but Ella had only found three names amongst Summers’ diagnoses.

First was Jim Sanders, an apparent war veteran. He appeared in several entries. In one note, Summers had written:Patient continues utilizing trauma narrative as personal identity cornerstone. Persists in framing alcoholism as consequence of ‘survivor's guilt;’ a construct with minimal empirical support. Resistant to exploring responsibility in current life circumstances.Ella had to wonder whether or notSanders knew his therapist had essentially dismissed his PTSD as an elaborate excuse.

Charlotte Weber came next. Society wife andprofessional victim, as Summers had labeled her.Patient demonstrates textbook displacement behaviors. Attempts to fill emotional void with material acquisitions. Medicates emptiness with benzodiazepines and alcohol. Lacks insight into husband's infidelity as natural response to her emotional unavailability.

Reading between the lines, Ella saw a woman trapped in a gilded cage, medicated into compliance by a therapist who mistook wealth for wellness. The more Ella read, the more convinced she was that Dr. Summers wasn’t the gifted psychologist she painted herself as. Ella was close to concluding that Summers actively hated them.

Third came David Borash. His notes were sparse in comparison to the others.Patient presents with obsessive cataloging of bird species and their supposed spiritual significance. Claims birds choose specific perches to communicate warnings about natural disasters. Recommended referral to community clinic. Not complex enough for my practice.

Even in private notes,Summers couldn't resist the urge to remind herself of her superiority. Whoever Borash was, he was apparently just another peasant at the gates of the ivory tower.

Ella looked at the darkening sky outside. She thought of Luca, and how he should be halfway to Massachusetts by now. She grabbed her phone, fired off a text, then spun her thoughts to the P on Dr. Summers’ head.

P for what?

If love-rat Chester Grant had been branded for his affair, then could Evelyn Summers have been branded for a similar transgression? Perhaps even the same one? Summers’ records showed she’d divorced her husband last year, although there was no newsworthy scandal to accompany it. Her divorce paper just listedirreconcilable differences.Still, she needed to track the husband down once she’d got through this pile of clients.

The door creaked open, and Ripley strode in, bringing a gust of cold air with her. 'Bad news times two.'

‘Don’t tell me you’ve started smoking again.’

‘Ask me again in an hour. Strike Grant’s wife off the list of suspects. She’s an English teacher now.’

‘So?’

‘In Sweden.’

‘Oh.’ One lead turned to dust. ‘What’s the other bad news?’

‘I checked out Summers’ ex-husband too. He’s been on a trip to Niagara Falls all week.’

‘So much for vengeful exes,’ Ella said. The disappointment clawed at her gut, but a part of her knew they wouldn’t find any dirt on the ex-partners. It was never that easy. ‘What’s next then?’

‘Anything in Summers’ notes?’

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