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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 not Sanders knew his therapist had essentially dismissed his PTSD as an elaborate excuse.

Charlotte Weber came next. Society wife and professional 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 listed irreconcilable 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?’

‘Only found three names so far. A war vet, bored housewife and a bird watcher.’

‘Any red flags?’

‘Not unless you count Summers herself. The woman never met a twelve-letter word she didn’t want to marry. It’s never anxiety, it’s textbook manifestations of generalized apprehension with comorbid attachment dysfunction. ’

‘Like rolling a turd in glitter.’

‘Yup.’

'Well, keep digging, and keep your grubby fingerprints away from the paper. That's still evidence.'

‘That’s why I’ve got gloves on, genius.’

Ripley sat at her laptop and started chewing a pen. ‘This is the part I haven’t missed the most,’ she said.

‘The brick walls?’

‘Yeah. You figured out what the P on Summers’ head means yet?’

‘Still working on it. All I’ve got’s a professor who couldn’t keep it in his pants.’

‘I was thinking about that. It could be libido.’

Ella went back to the last few notes in front of her. ‘Historical branding doesn’t work like that. The letter represents what the criminal was convicted of.’

‘So, wouldn’t that be adultery?’ Ripley asked. ‘Means that Summers was guilty of a similar sin.’

Sin. Ella snagged on the word. She repeated it in her head. Adultery, cheating, affair, betrayal. ‘Maybe, but adultery doesn’t begin with L.’

Before she could mentally dig any deeper, she glanced at the next piece of plastic-wrapped paper on the pile in front of her.

Another name appeared.

PATIENT: Jeremy Caldwell .

SESSION NOTES: Patient continues to exhibit increased religious fervor following his incarceration period (Mansfield Correctional, 2018-2023). While maintaining abstinence from chemical dependencies, he has transferred his addictive personality traits to fundamentalist theology. His self-appointed role as ‘religious speaker’ lacks official ordination but provides structure to his psychological framework. Has developed significant following through online ministry despite (or perhaps because of) his criminal record. Recommended continued anti-psychotic medication, though patient shows resistance to current dosage.

Ella’s pulse kicked into higher gear. ‘Mia, check this.’

‘What?’

‘Summers was treating a psychotic.’

Ripley wheeled herself over. ‘How psychotic?’

‘Any psychotic is enough.’ Ella pushed the file over. ‘Check that out.’

‘Jeremy Caldwell. Says he did a stint in prison.’

‘Yup, and a killer like this is going to have a history. No one just wakes up one day and decides to start branding foreheads.’

Ripley wheeled back over to her laptop and hammered the keyboard. ‘Caldwell. Let’s take a closer look.’

Ella joined her partner at the other side of the desk. The police database came to life on the screen. Ripley threw in the name Jeremy Caldwell and clicked search.

One result.

‘Got him.’ Ripley clicked into the suspect’s file. ‘Well, well. Caldwell’s been a busy boy.’

Ella leaned in for a closer look. Goosebumps prickled her forearms.

2017: Property damage. Charges dropped.

2018: Felony arson. Church gymnasium.

2018-2023: Mansfield Correctional. Released on good behavior.

‘Church burning. Seems this guy’s got a love-hate thing going on with religion. He got an address?’

Ripley scrolled through the file. ‘Right here. Apartment 332, West Hollows Way.’

Ella grabbed her phone and threw the address in. 'Map says it's ten miles from here. Are we ready to visit this guy?'

Ripley snatched a paper clip from the desk and began straightening it methodically between her fingers. It was the habitual fingerwork of a woman whose mind moved faster than conversation allowed.

‘So we’ve got someone that a psychologist claims is psychotic, although we apparently shouldn’t put too much stock in that.’

‘A broken clock is right twice a day.’

'True. He's obviously been inside Summers' office, so he knows there's a fireplace there. He's got a criminal history, including an offense with fire. Summers doesn't seem to be too thrilled with him as a client either, and he can probably sense that. Then there's the religious thing.'

Ella paused. She caught on something in Ripley’s citation. ‘Wait a minute. Religious thing.’

The paper clip had transformed into a perfect straight line. Ripley tested its point against her thumb, then threw it aside and grabbed her jacket. ‘What about it?’

‘The arson. Church gymnasium.’

‘Yeah. Mansfield Correctional, 2018 to 2023. ’

‘Does it say why he burned it down?’ Ella leaned closer, her thigh muscles tensing with the effort not to jump to conclusions.

Ripley clicked through to the original police report. ‘Says here he thought the gym was a drugs den.’

A voltage surge crackled through Ella’s veins. Some of the layers peeled away and she suddenly had a slightly clearer picture of this psychopath’s world view. Cheating, betrayal, adultery.

‘So we know our killer’s got a strong sense of right and wrong. He killed Chester Grant because he couldn’t control his libido, so you could say Grant committed a sin in this killer’s eyes. The sin of lust.’ Ella slapped her hand on the table. ‘Of course. How did I miss this?’

‘Miss what?’

Ella jumped up and jabbed one of the crime scene photos on her war board. ‘Dr. Summers. The P on her forehead. It’s a sin.’

‘Come again?’

‘Summers thought she was smarter than everyone. Thought she was better. Ego. Vanity. The P on her forehead means pride. ’

Understanding dawned on Ripley’s face. ‘What, you don’t think he’s-‘

‘I do think. Lust. Pride. It’s two of the seven deadly sins.’