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Ella didn't waste time on pleasantries when she stepped back into the interrogation room. Small talk was for people with unlimited time. She and Canton had neither. She briefly studied the topography of his face and found it was all written right there. He wasn't their killer. He was something far more interesting: a man who'd rather wear someone else's sins than face his own emptiness.

‘You’re back,’ Canton said.

'Yes, I am. I'm here to talk about confessions.'

‘I’m not talking until my lawyer gets here.’

‘He’s stuck in traffic. Another hour away.’

‘Then we’ll speak then,’ Canton said.

‘Fine, you don’t need to talk. Just listen.’

Canton folded his arms and bared his teeth in a punchable-faced smile.

‘Interesting thing about confessions,’ Ella began. ‘Some people confess to clear their conscience. Others confess to fill a void. I think you did the latter.’

No response.

'You told me you killed Rebecca Torres, and yes, we found hundreds of photos of her in your apartment. I believe you've been stalking her, but I don't think for a second you killed her.'

Canton’s throat worked a little behind his collar, like it was strangling him. Organs sometimes expanded under stress, so maybe it was.

‘Now here’s the big question – why would someone confess to a murder they didn’t commit? It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Well, not when your future is as uncertain as yours. Torres is taking your home and your job once they demolish your church. That’s got to sting, so I think this whole thing is your get-out-of-jail-free card. Actually, I think it’s the opposite. I think it’s your go-to-jail card.’

Canton closed his eyes and smoothed his eyebrows down. Ella could see his lips forming a retort, but he’d already committed to silence. If she wanted to unlock those lips, she needed to dig into the deepest recesses of his brain.

'When your church is knocked down, you're gonna be left to your own devices. No compensation, no payout, no employment. A priest on the wrong side of 50. It's not like you can just walk into another job, especially around here. You're a smart guy. You're not going to risk being homeless, so you're doing the next best thing. Life in a prison cell. With good behavior, you'd be out in ten, twelve years. Then the state would look after you. I know you've got no family left. I've seen your file. A prison cell looks pretty good compared to a cardboard box under the highway.' Ella leaned across the table. 'Tell me I'm wrong, Adam.'

Canton's face twitched. Just a microsecond of truth before the mask slipped back into place. ‘I want him now. My lawyer.’

‘He can’t teleport, Adam, and neither can you. The name James Harper ring any bells?’

The name hit Canton's face like rain on glass. It rolled right off without leaving a mark. No recognition. No fear. Not even curiosity. Just the bland emptiness of someone looking at a stranger's passport photo.

‘No? Well, he’s a surgeon, and our local serial killer slashed his throat a few hours ago. Judging by the M.O., it’s the same person that killed Rebecca Torres. And Chester Grant, and Evelyn Summers. The pattern is there. So if you killed Torres, you also killed the other three. Any comment?’

Canton’s lips worked. Words were battling for release, but Canton’s stubbornness won out. He stayed quiet.

‘And four murders is grounds for life imprisonment, or like I said, the death penalty. It’s funny how you couldn’t confess to Torres’ murder fast enough, but once I told you you’d be facing the injection, you suddenly shit your pants. How about that then?’

Canton threw his head back and glared at the ceiling. His body language had shifted. He’d been defensive since he stepped in here, but some of the tension had fallen out of his shoulders. Either Ella was getting through to him, or he’d accepted his fate in the past few minutes.

‘So, Adam, you’re either getting out of here guilty of four murders or none. And you better decide quickly, because Westfall will be here in an hour to charge you. ’

He dropped his head back and gave Ella a deer-in-the-headlights look.

‘I know you’re a man of devotion, and I think you’re worshipping someone new now. I think this person who killed Torres – this serial killer – is your new God, and you’re willing to take the fall for him.’

Something cracked in Canton's expression. He slammed his hands on the table. ‘Fine! I didn’t kill Torres. Happy?’

A sudden weight left Ella’s shoulders. She felt like she’d just heard the lottery announcer call out her numbers.

‘Finally!’ she grinned. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! Keep going, Adam. Tell me everything.’

'You're right. I wanted to take credit for killing Torres. Yes, I'd be locked up, but I'd get a bed and food every night in jail. And when I got out, I'd be the hero who killed a corrupt politician. Either that or the real killer would come forward, then I'd be the poor innocent priest that got wrongfully convicted.'

‘But you confessed.’

‘I’m on meds. They make me forgetful, don’t they? And no, I don’t want to be put to death.’

‘Then help me help you, because Westfall and my partner both think you’re guilty. What about the other victims?’

‘I’ve never heard their names in my life. God’s honest truth.’

‘You didn’t email Dr. James Harper? Harper Aesthetics?’

‘No. Why would I email a plastic surgeon?’

‘To ambush him.’

‘I didn’t do that.’

‘Well, someone emailed him from your church's internet connection.'

Canton showed his palms. ‘Wait, slow down. What does that mean? How do you know that?’

‘You got Wi-Fi at your church?’

‘Yes, but it’s for me, not the church-goers.’

‘Well someone sent our last victim emails whilst connected to your Wi-Fi. Who else has access to your network?’

Canton scratched his stubble. ‘I don’t know. Just me and my staff? I can’t think of anyone else.’

‘Is your network secure? Or can anyone just log in to it if they’re within range?’

‘No. It has a password. Sorry, I’m not good with technology.’

‘Then I’m gonna need the names of your staff. Who else works at First Light Assembly, Adam?’

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked like a fish out of water. ‘Mostly volunteers, but we have two regulars. We can't afford full-time staff anymore.’

‘Names, Adam.’

‘Uhh…. Sister Mary does most of the admin. Arranges flowers. She actually lives just behind the church, in the outbuilding.’

Ella committed the name to memory. ‘Who else?’

‘There’s Tom, I guess.’

‘Tom?’

‘Father Thomas Walsh. He does confessional twice a week.’

The human brain typically processes information at forty bits per second, but in this moment, Ella's mind raced orders of magnitude faster.

How had she not seen it sooner?

The common thread that wove through every victim, every crime scene, every blood message. The act of divulging one's deepest shame and exposing the soft underbelly of the soul to the blade of judgment.

Confession.

The unsub wasn't randomly selecting sinners. He was systematically executing people who had revealed their darkest transgressions to him, thinking they were speaking to God's representative. The killer had perverted a sacred trust into an execution list.

‘Thomas Walsh,’ Ella repeated. ‘Who is he? Where is he? I need to find him.’

‘Walsh? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all week.’

Of course, Ella thought. He’d been laying low, except when emerging to kill four people. ‘Right. Where’s he live?’

‘I don’t know. He’s not scheduled back at the church until next week.’

‘Doing what?’

'He runs his support group there. They used to meet at St. Augustine's Community Center, but the place got shut down.'

A distant memory surfaced. One that felt years’ old but had only lodged in her memory bank yesterday. ‘Support group? Not… Baptism of Fire?’

‘Yeah. How’d you know?’

The connection snapped into place. Ella remembered what Jeremy Caldwell had said.

‘There was a man. At a support group I attended... Very charismatic... He could talk the hind legs off a donkey, but there was something about him. Something off... He called himself Lazarus.’

And Ella was convinced she’d just found this mysterious Lazarus.

‘And you don’t know Thomas Walsh’s address?’

'No. Sorry. I think it's near Leominster, but I can't be sure. Sister Mary probably knows though.'

‘Right. You said she lives behind the church?’

‘Yes. There’s a converted outbuilding across the way. She rents it.’

Ella was at the door in two steps. Father Thomas Walsh. Ella needed to find him, and if she made it in time, maybe she could get the truth out there.

But before she left, she turned and said, ‘Adam. The seven deadly sins.’

‘What about them?’

‘What might B stand for?’

‘B? There’s no deadly sin beginning with B.’

‘Alright. Just figured I’d ask.’ Ella turned to run, but then –

‘Unless…’

She stopped, turned back. ‘Unless what?’

‘Unless you go by the Latin translation.’

‘Explain.’

‘The Bible was translated to Latin around 400 A.D. The translation was different in there. Instead of Gluttony, it was Blasphemy. Or Blasphemia.’

Blasphemy, Ella thought. A plastic surgeon, giving the middle finger to God by sculpting human flesh.

It fit.

‘Thank you, Adam. Sit tight. I’ll be back.’