Page 69 of Girl, Accused

‘The brand in James Harper’s forehead. Blasphemy.’

‘No kidding? How’d you figure that out?’

‘Just trust me,’ Ella said.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Sin had a weight to it. The Confessor felt it in the trunk of the car. The tools of divine judgment nestled between winter coats and cardboard boxes of a life packed away. Each item carried memories: the branding iron that had kissed five foreheads, the knife that had opened four throats, the brazier that had heated metal to flesh-searing temperatures. Their combined mass pulled the car's rear suspension low, like guilt dragging a soul to hell.

Not guilt. Purpose. The distinction mattered.

And now, the Confessor watched the detective through the windshield.

It had been perfect timing. Unexpected blessings often arrived that way. The Confessor had been ready to leave this town behind, along with the four dead bodies, and never return.

But the detective’s arrival had changed that, because plans changed when God opened doors.

The detective had arrived in a sedan. The kind driven by sensible people with sensible jobs. The Confessor watched as a woman emerged from the driver's side. There was no gun that the Confessor could see, but she might be concealing one under her jacket. Whoever she was, she didn’t look like she belonged to the local police.

The W branded into the Confessor's forehead throbbed beneath its layer of concealer. Wrath. The mark that started it all seared into flesh during that first night at St. Augustine's when everything became clear. Pain had brought clarity then. Pain always did.

That night replayed in perfect detail: the empty church, the makeshift brazier, the metal heating to cherry red. The first press of burning iron to flesh had been like God's own signature. Pastor Canton always said that trauma changed brain chemistry. Rewired neural pathways. Made new connections where none existed before. Perhaps that's what happened that night, with blood running into eyes and smoke curling toward heaven. Or perhaps it was simply divine revelation, delivered through fire instead of burning bushes.

The detective circled the house now. She tried to project that air of authority, but the Confessor saw deeper. Saw past that hardened exterior to the hunger that drove all law enforcement. They envied those with the courage to dispense real justice.

The Confessor's fingers ceased their drumming against the steering wheel. Numbers tumbled through the. Four sinners faced. Four letters carved. Four messages written in cooling blood.

Chester Grant wore his L well. The lustful professor who thought darkness could hide his sins from the eye of God. His blood had painted truth across classroom walls: NO EYE WILL SEE ME. His final lecture on medieval morality, delivered in hemoglobin instead of chalk.

Evelyn Summers earned her P through pride, thinking she could play God with other people's minds. The brand looked like it belonged on her forehead, like a third eye finally opening to real truth. Her own book became her confession: NO ONE SEES ME. It was the ultimate validation of her lifelong victim complex.

Rebecca Torres carried G for the sin that consumed her. Greed incarnate, who thought she could serve both God and Mammon without consequence. Her laptop screen still displayed her epitaph: NO ONE SERVES TWO MASTERS. The words made manifest in equal parts blood and irony.

James Harper's B marked him as blasphemer, reshaping God's creation with scalpel and suture until human vanity eclipsed divine design. His pristine walls now carried crimson truth: WHOEVER POURS OUT LIES WILL NOT GO FREE. His perfect hands had trembled at the end, realizing too late that man's judgment meant nothing against God's.

Wrath was the Confessor themselves. So that left two.

Sloth was the sixth. The sin of apathy, of moral laziness. And who embodied that better than Adam Canton? The priest who'd let his church fall into disrepair, who'd rather confess to murders he didn't commit than face the hard work of redemption?

Just one left.

Envy.

The Confessor thought of those badge-carrying sentinels of so-called justice. These ‘defenders’ who envied true righteousness while lacking the courage to enact it. How many times had they stood by, hiding behind procedure and protocol, while evil flourished in theirjurisdiction? The detective who'd interviewed Mother after the assault, scribbling notes with disinterested precision while asking what she'd been wearing. The officers who'd shrugged at Father's bruises, saying ‘domestic situations are complicated.’ The entire precinct that had allowed Rebecca Torres to funnel millions into private accounts while citizens couldn't afford their heating bills.

The police were the ultimate embodiment of envy. They craved the moral authority their badges suggested while lacking the conviction to wield it properly. Envying the power to judge but refusing the responsibility of punishment.

One of them would make the perfect final statement.

Modern psychology would call this a moment of crisis. A point where carefully laid plans intersected with divine opportunity. But psychology was just another attempt to explain away God's hand in human affairs. Like trying to understand ocean tides by measuring individual waves.

The Confessor knew that sometimes the path to righteousness required a detour through darkness. After all, Christ himself had wandered in the desert for forty days. Had been tempted by Satan with earthly power. This was just another wilderness. Another temptation. Another test of faith.

Four dead bodies, but four wasn't a holy number anyway. Four belonged to the earth - four seasons, four directions, four elements.

But seven? Seven contained multitudes. Seven days of creation. Seven seals of revelation. Seven steps to salvation.

One more. That would make five dead sinners, one sinner soon to spend his life in prison, and the Confessor themself.

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