Page 27 of Girl, Accused

‘L.’

‘L for Lust,’ Ella said.

Ripley’s face lit up. ‘Lust. Damn. That could be it. Maybe our unsub thinks he’s God with a branding iron.’

‘Right? So we need to find his ex-wife. And the girl he had an affair with.’

Her partner tapped the boxes. ‘You dive into Summers’ dirty laundry. Leave the admin to me. I’ll find Grant’s harem. Nothing makes a woman talk faster than the chance to piss on her cheating husband's grave.’

‘Deal. I’ll look through Summers’ stuff, see if I can find any link to Grant in there. Or anyone who sent up red flags.’

‘Yeah. Boundary-crossers. Control freaks. Someone who thinks they got the moral authority to brand foreheads.’

The revelations buzzed under her skin like a chemical high. This was the part she lived for, when the pieces started slotting together and the bigger picture swam into focus.

This killer had a body count of two, and Ella was going to make sure it stayed that way.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Confessor had found a spider in the bathtub that morning. Not one of those massive nightmares with fuzzy legs and multiple eyes that could give a grown man palpitations, but a tiny little thing. The Confessor watched it struggle against the porcelain slope for nearly three minutes before finally holding out a finger as a bridge. The spider considered the offer, then scurried across the lifeline to freedom.

Kindness and mercy, even for the smallest creatures. That was the difference between The Confessor and the monsters in this world. The ones who deserved what they got.

The kitchen calendar showed December 15th. Two days since branding Chester Grant, and about fifteen hours since branding Dr. Summers. As the Confessor loaded their cooking implements into the sink, a memory from childhood sparked, as it always did when handling frying pans.

The bacon had burned because Mom overslept again. Dad screamed and threw the frying pan against the wall, leaving a dent that never got fixed. But two hours later, they sat in their Sunday best, smiling at neighbors, singing hymns, pretending. Always pretending.

No confessions. No truth. Just smiles plastered on faces like masks at a carnival.

Through the window, the Confessor watched people drift past. All those faces frozen in manufactured smiles. All those lives edited for maximum social media impact.

Take the woman who ran the nail salon nearby. She posted daily affirmations about 'living your truth' while running an operation that paid immigrants below minimum wage. Or the juice bar owner down the road who preached clean living while dealing cocaine after hours. Everyone is selling an image. Everyone hiding something.

After cleaning the dishes (always clean as you go, never leave a trace), The Confessor descended to the basement. Not the dank, moldy affair of horror movies, but a well-lit workspace with concrete floors sealed against moisture. A dehumidifier hummed in the corner, keepingthe air crisp and dry. Perfect for preserving materials that might otherwise decay.

Most people filled their basements with Christmas decorations and forgotten exercise equipment. The Confessor had different priorities. Files lined the walls in meticulous rows. Newspaper clippings. Court transcripts. Financial records. Five years of evidence gathered one paper cut at a time.

Dr. Summers’ death had made page four in today’s newspaper, so the Confessor cut it out and placed it in his collection. The article had painted Summers as a pillar of the community. A healer. A guide. It neglected to mention her kickbacks from pharmaceutical companies or how three of her patients had committed suicide. The truth didn't fit their narrative, so they’d left it out. One would think that the press would jump at the chance to demonize a murder victim, and maybe they would in time, but only once they needed another spike in sales or clicks.

The papers hadn't mentioned the brandings yet. The police were keeping that little detail close to their chests. Soon enough, though, the real story would surface. The crime scene photos would leak, first to internal police groups, then to medical examiners with loose lips, then outward in ripples until they hit the internet. In years to come, when people searched for Dr. Summers online, they wouldn't find her books or her talks, they'd find photos of the P in her forehead.

The same for Grant. His ‘L’ would long outlive his scholarly papers.

That was justice. Not the temporary shame of a courthouse appearance or the fleeting scandal of a newspaper headline, but permanent truth carved into the public consciousness. The brandings would advertise their sins to the world long after their bodies had cooled.

In the basement, the Confessor’s workspace centered around a large wooden table rescued from a school surplus auction. The science lab kind with the black resin top that resisted chemical spills. Ideal for blood, should it come to that. It rarely did, though. The Confessor preferred clean work whenever possible.

On the table lay a collection of tools, each with its purpose. The branding iron with interchangeable letters, custom ordered from a metalworker in Cincinnati who assumed they were for livestock. Thehunting knife with the bone handle, purchased at a garage sale for three dollars from a man who never made eye contact.

And, of course, his holy book.

A memory surfaced, sitting at one of Chester Grant’s guest lectures a few years ago. He'd been lecturing about morality plays. About how medieval audiences needed their stories simple. Good versus evil. Sin versus salvation. No room for nuance.

‘But we're more sophisticated now,’ he'd said, while eyeballing a girl young enough to be his daughter in the front row. ‘We understand moral complexity.’

The Confessor remembered watching Grant's trial from the gallery. Remembered his lawyer spinning tales about consensual relationships and adult choices. The student transferred schools. The wife moved states. Grant kept teaching Milton to teenagers.

Until two nights ago.

---