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The database spat Thomas Walsh's face onto Ella's screen. He had the same unremarkable features worn by ten thousand other men. The kind of face designed to dissolve in memory the moment it left your line of sight. Walsh’s record matched his appearance: insubstantial, forgettable, barely enough to warrant ink on paper.

The results weren’t empty, which was something.

Thomas Walsh. DOB: 06/17/1974. Height: 5'11’. Weight: 196 lbs.

Criminal convictions:

2017: Misdemeanor trespassing (dismissed).

2018: Protesting at a medical clinic (dismissed).

2022: Failure to appear for jury duty.

Hardly the résumé of a monster. But monsters didn't advertise. They camouflaged. They dissolved into backgrounds and emerged only when hunger or mission dictated. They wore the skins of ordinary men the way Walsh wore his clerical collar. As disguise, as permission, as armor against suspicion.

But what Thomas Walsh's record didn't spit out was an address. His driver's license information showed he'd renewed his license two years ago, but used a P.O. Box as his mailing address. His employment records were noticeably empty, too. No tax returns for the past three years. No property ownership. No utilities in his name. Nothing that would anchor him to a physical location.

For a second, Ella almost forgot that Mia Ripley, aka the human sniffer dog, was only a phone call away. Ella grabbed her phone and dialed.

‘Dark,’ Ripley answered on the first ring. ‘Me and Westfall are just finishing up at the Harper scene. The body’s with-‘

‘Mia, I’ve got something.’

‘Yeah, a disease. What are you gonna tell me now?’

‘I’m going to tell you that Canton isn’t our killer. He just confessed everything to me. He was lying about killing Torres.’

‘A serial killer telling lies. What next? The wheel?’

‘No. Other people have access to his Wi-Fi network. Two other people. His workers.’

‘Right,’ Ripley sighed. ‘I’ll entertain this. Who are these people?’

‘One is Sister Mary. The other is Thomas Walsh – and he’s the one we want. Walsh has a criminal record going back seven years. And you remember that Lazarus guy that Jeremy Caldwell told us about? The one who led the support group? That’s Walsh. Canton said Walsh does the confessionals at their church.’

‘So?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? Confessionals. All of our people committed sins. How’d our unsub find out about these sins? The answer is that the victims told him directly. They just didn’t know.’

Ripley made a noncommittal sound. 'Canton told you this? Are you sure he's not just trying to save his own ass?'

‘There’s every possibility he is, but we need to cross every I and dot every T. We need to find Walsh and bring him in immediately.’

‘Okay. What’s stopping you doing that? Me and Westfall are all but ready to pack up and call this case closed.’

‘I can’t find Walsh’s address on the system. I’ve tried DMV, tax records, vehicle regs, everything.’

‘Then you’re looking in the wrong places.’

‘Enlighten me.’

Ripley's sigh carried across the line with crystal clarity. ‘Walsh is a former criminal, you say? Well, criminals avoid official records. Look between the cracks.’

‘Like where?’

‘Hmm. He works for First Light Assembly?’

'Yes, he does.'

‘Churches. Tax breaks. Have you tried FALCON?’

Ella slapped her forehead. Of course. FALCON was the Financial Analysis and Ledger Correlation Network, a database used by the FBI, CIA and Homeland Security to monitor tax data. If any people or companies made sizable donations to nonprofit organizations, FALCON logged it.

‘Mia, I could kiss you.’

‘Save it. It’s not a guarantee, but every church I know donates something for tax breaks.’

Ella loaded up the software on her laptop and threw her credentials into the FALCON portal. The interface loaded up. Ella navigated to the nonprofit section and typed in ‘First Light Assembly, Granville, Ohio.’

One result. The church was registered, with a full financial history going back fifteen years.

‘They’re in here,’ Ella said.

‘Now just go through the donations and see if Walsh’s name crops up.’

‘Give me a minute.’ Ella clicked through to the donor records. First Light Assembly received the bulk of its funding from member donations, with a smattering of grants from larger religious organizations. She sorted the data by donor name and began scanning for Walsh.

Nothing under W.

‘Dammit,’ she said. ‘No Walsh in the donor list.’

‘Try initials,’ Ripley suggested. ‘Some people donate anonymously but keep their initials.’

Ella adjusted her search parameters. T.W. yielded three results – two small donations from different individuals, and a third, more substantial one: a $5,000 gift made three years ago for ‘building repair.’

She clicked through to the donor details. The system required additional authentication for this level of data. Ella entered her second-factor code and waited.

The screen repopulated with information that made her pulse quicken.

Donor: Thomas W. (Full name redacted at donor request).

SSN: XXX-XX-7849.

Amount: $5,000.

Purpose: Building repair fund.

Donor address: 1587 Macbeth Drive, Granville, OH.

‘Mia, I’ve got him. 1587 Macbeth Drive.’

‘Hang on,’ Ripley said. Her voice went tinny. ‘Westfall, you know where Macbeth Drive is?’

A moment of silence. Ella tried to listen to their chat but couldn’t hear anything.

‘You’re in luck.’ Ripley continued. ‘It’s five minutes from here, apparently.’

‘Five minutes from you is thirty minutes from me. Can you check Walsh out? Take the cavalry with you. We don’t have time to wait.’

‘Dark, come on.’ Ripley’s frustration was palpable. ‘And what? We talk to him. He denies everything. We charge Canton tonight regardless. Is this really going to change anything?’

‘Please, Mia.’ Ella rarely begged, but desperation had its own language. ‘If Walsh is home, we could end this today. Properly.’

Another pause. Ella could hear Ripley weighing up her options. ‘Fine. I’ll go.’

‘I know. Just... be careful. This guy believes he's on a divine mission. Men like that don't surrender easily.’

‘Sure. And what are you going to do? Meet us here?’

Ella glanced at the wall clock. Four twenty-seven PM. Daylight bleeding away by the minute. ‘I'm going back to First Light Assembly. Canton mentioned another staff member – Sister Mary something. She lives in an outbuilding behind the church. If Walsh isn't at home, she might know where he's hiding.’

‘Fine. Keep your phone on.’

‘You too,’ Ella said. By the way, it’s Latin.’

‘What’s Latin?’

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

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

‘Just trust me,’ Ella said.