Intrigued, I pull off on the shoulder, to see if he will pass. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls up behind me, and steps out of his car. I hit the button for my flashers, and lift my phone to my ear. As he nears my window, I begin to speak. Carrying on a conversation with no one, I keep my voice low. When Lasco reaches my window, I put my finger to my lips, and tell my imaginary caller to hold on.

  “Is everything alright?” Lasco asks quietly, “Something wrong with the car?”

  I tilt the phone, as if to keep the person on the other end from hearing our conversation, and shake my head. “No. I needed to answer the phone, so I pulled over.”

  Lasco nods. Without another word, he returns to his car, and drives ahead of us. I wait for several moments, until I see him turn off Falls City Highway, toward Marilynn. I put my phone back in the glove box and turn off my hazard lights. With no other traffic behind me, I pull off the shoulder and head home.

  I keep my eyes peeled, looking for any sign of Lasco, but see nothing. I pull the car to a stop in our driveway, and touch my sleeping wife’s shoulder.

  “Honey, we’re home.”

  She groans in her sleep, but doesn’t wake. I chuckle softly and try again. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of the car. The house has air conditioning,” I say, knowing that will do the trick.

  As predicted, my wife opens her eyes and steps out of the car. I join her, unlocking the door quickly. We step over the threshold, and my wife sighs when the cool air washes over her.

  “How long are you going to be gone?” she asks, folding herself into the corner of the couch.

  I shrug and bend to kiss her. “A couple of hours, maybe? I need to get all that potting mix over to the shed, so it’s there when the volunteers show up tomorrow. The community garden party is tomorrow, and they’re not going to get very far without it.”

  My wife frowns. “It’s going to take you a couple of hours to deliver dirt?”

  I kneel in front of the couch and chuckle. “No, baby. After I get all the mix over there, I’ve got to get the rest of the supplies inventoried, pull all the bio-pots from the basement, and make sure the seeds were delivered.”

  “Do you want some help?” my wife offers.

  I know she’s not up to it, and she doesn’t need to see what I’m really going to be doing. I shake my head. “No, sweetheart, you stay here. You got a lot of sun today, and you need some rest.”

  I often volunteer to assure the last-minute details for the CRBC outreach programs are tended to. While my wife had been the one that was asked to deliver the soil, I’d dutifully offered to do it for her. Part of me offered in order to spare her the burden of lifting the heavy sacks. She’s not weak, by any means, but as her wife I feel an obligation to help her out. The other part of me, had a much dastardlier reason.

  She giggles and bats her lashes at me. “Hurry home, sweetheart. Seeing you in that swimsuit got me hotter than the sun did.”

  Her smile sends a rush of desire straight to my thighs. If I weren’t so pressed to act tonight, I would have said fuck it. Unfortunately, my victim is scheduled to leave town tomorrow.

  “I promise,” I say, kissing her passionately, “I will be back before you know it.”

  My wife looks up at me from under half-lidded eyes. “I miss you already.”

  For the first time, since I began my endeavor, I wish I could stop. The way she looks at me lately, fills my heart with so much joy. I would give anything to get off the path I’ve carved for myself.

  I don’t know how, though. I could stop killing, and let The Confessor disappear into the unknown, but what if something happens down the road? What if all my caution, all my careful attention to detail, isn’t enough to keep the police from discovering me?

  No. I can’t let my wife suffer through knowing that the woman she loved, the woman she shared her bed with, her life with, was a murderer. I’d rather she mourned my death, than live with that knowledge. My original plan has changed over the past few weeks. I’ve gone from choosing to turn myself in, to letting the murders simply go unsolved, to deciding to take my own life.

  I still intend to end my own life, but now, I’ve settled on framing my final victim for all the murders, including my own.

  ~ Chapter 9: August ~

  Arnold Lasco killed his headlights and pulled to a stop outside the CRBC garden sheds. The sheds were situated on an old lot, halfway between Marilynn and Falls City. Only those with intimate knowledge of the hidden access road could reach the sheds and storage bunkers.

  He’d parked his car among the other vehicles on Destiny Lane, and waited for Frost to come through. Hours he’d been waiting, kneeling behind the bushes. He did his best to remain hidden, whenever headlights signaled an approaching vehicle.

  Tourists frequently parked along this road, while they wandered through the wooded area under the stars. Lasco knew his car wouldn’t be noticed. He intended to wait, all night if need be, for her to come along. His plan, if it worked, would allow him to wait at a safe distance, until Frost was far enough from the gate for him to follow.

  When Frost finally arrived, Lasco waited until her car passed through the magnetic gate. As the gate began to swing closed, he moved quickly to place a thick towel between the magnets, preventing the gate from latching.

  That was how he managed to get onto the access road. Once certain that Frost was beyond noticing him, Lasco returned to his car, and drove through the gate. He stopped, to remove the towel, before continuing toward the storage facilities.

  What are you doing, you idiot? No one knows where you are. What if she gets the better of you?

  Lasco’s mind began screaming at him, but he pushed away the warnings. He was going to be a hero, and show that bitch, Cordelia Weston, that he was a better detective than her.

  Lasco carefully stepped out of his car, weapon drawn, and made his way to the side of one shed. From his perch in the total darkness, broken only by the light of the stars, he made a cursory inspection of his surroundings.

  The bunkers to his left, where the seeds and bulbs for the community garden were kept, were completely dark. On the right, a single, dim light flickered near the foundation of the smaller shed. Skirting the narrow circle of light cast by the glow, Lasco eased onto his knees and peeked into the small, dirty window.

  His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of a man tied to the stainless-steel table. I know him! He was just released from prison, last month.

  Lasco couldn’t hear what was being said between the killer and her victim, but he could see her showing the man several photographs.

  I wonder if I can get in there, Lasco thought, searching in the dark for the door. He crept around the building, cautious to avoid anything that might alert Frost to his presence. He came across a wooden door, but the padlock on the outside presented a problem.

  She must have gotten in another way.

  He continued his canvas of the area, and would have missed the basement access, had it not been for the moonlight glinting off the door pull.

  Why does a storage shed have a basement?

  Holstering his gun, Lasco eased open the access door, relief flooding him when it didn’t even squeak. He used his back as a brace, allowing the door to close slowly as he descended the stairs. At the bottom, Lasco closed his eyes for a moment, to allow them to adjust to the total darkness, before opening them again.

  The room was pitch black, giving him no indication of what direction to go. Moving with slow, deliberate steps, Lasco stretched out his hands. Once he felt something solid, he eased his way to the left, hoping he wouldn’t run into anything noisy.

  Lasco’s fingers walked across the bare expanse of cement as he shuffled along the wall, until his hand came into contact with cold metal. Lasco paused, letting his fingers trace the edge of the metal obstacle.

  It’s a door. I hope it’s not locked.

  Lasco eased his hand over the door, stopping when his fingers found a rounded knob. Withdrawing his gun carefully, Lasco took a deep breath and turned the knob.

  ***

  “Confess,” I growl again, my patience with this man wearing thin, “and I will release you.”

  “Confess?” the man laughs, “Confess to what? I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, sweetheart, what is it I’m confessing to?”

  I pull three photos from my tool tray, turning them so he can see.

  “Brittney McClure, Holly Daily, Hunter Halsey,” I said, cautious to keep my voice deep and gravelly.

  The man’s eyes crinkle with humor. “Oh yeah, I remember them,” he says, “those girls put up a helluva fight.”

  His amusement angers me, and I strike out with my blade. He growls out his discomfort, but doesn’t scream.

  “I like it rough,” he says, taunting me.

  My face scrunches as fury builds inside me. I strike out again, this time, my blade deeply scoring his stomach, from hip bone to hip bone. This time, he screams.

  “Fuck, that hurt!” he bellows, making me smile.

  “Are you ready to take this seriously?” I bark.

  He nods, his eyes no longer dancing with humor. I click the app on the phone, and hold it over him.

  “Confess,” I order. He complies, reliving the grotesque crime for which he’d never been prosecuted. When he’s finished, I turn off the camera and set it on the table. I reach across the man’s chest, toward the cuff on his left hand. Before I can deliver the vengeance his victims deserve, the door behind me swings open.

  “FCPD, put your hands up!”

  I whirl around, shock and surprise blazing through me. I can see the same emotions in the detective’s eyes, and we stare at each other for several moments. I recognize him, this public servant who has sworn to protect and serve his community.

  “You!” we exclaim in unison.

  ***

  Lasco stares into the face of a vicious murderer, but it’s not the face he expected to see. He was certain The Confessor was Oakley Frost. He’d recognized her the moment she was introduced, all those weeks ago. Fifteen years had added a few age lines to her beautiful face, but she still looked the same as she did the last time he’d seen her.

  Instead, Lasco was beyond confused at seeing her wife, Stormie Carter, standing before him, scalpel at the ready.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  Stormie’s eyes narrowed and her complexion flushed with anger. “Because of you,” she spat, jabbing the scalpel in his direction, “Everything I’ve done for the past decade and a half, is because of you!”

  Anger, like none Lasco had ever seen from one person, radiated from Stormie in visible waves. He didn’t blame her, though. His mistake had haunted him for more years than he cared to admit.

  “I get that part,” Lasco said, lowering his gun slightly, “but why kill all those people? Were they substitutes for me?”

  Stormie sneered. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lasco,” she said, putting emphasis on his name. “None of my victims were a substitute for you. You, however, were to play a major role in my grand finale.”

  Lasco’s curiosity got the best of him. “Then why kill them, if you weren’t using them as replacements?”

  “You really are stupid,” Stormie scoffed, “How the hell did you make detective? You are the reason I started doling out justice, that’s true. Each of my victims did exactly what you did; they got away with committing a crime against an innocent person. The only difference, is that their victims finally received recompense. I made sure of that.”

  Lasco’s expression fell, and Stormie paused when she saw tears in his eyes.

  “I never got away with what I did,” he declared vehemently, “I’ve lived every day of the last fifteen years, fielding the guilt that has threatened to consume me. I was a stupid kid who thought he owned the world, thanks to Daddy’s money. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I took my dad’s motorcycle anyway.”

  “When I ran that stop sign, and hit your daughter, I wanted to die. I was sixteen years old, and I wanted to take her place. I tried to accept responsibility for my actions, but my father’s lawyer thought he knew best. I would have been happy, giving up my freedom, but my parents wouldn’t have such a scandal.”

  “Is that why they changed your name?” Stormie asked. She was still armed with the scalpel, and glanced quickly at the man on the table. He was watching the exchange with intense curiosity.

  “They didn’t,” Lasco said, lowering his gun completely. If she killed him, so be it. “I changed it. After I was released from house arrest, I disowned my family, and changed my name. I didn’t want to carry on the name of a family who valued their reputation over the life of an innocent baby.”

  “So, this is how you’re going to redeem yourself, and assuage your guilt?” Stormie asked, “You going to arrest me and take the credit for apprehending the notorious Confessor?”

  Lasco holstered his gun and shook his head. “No,” he stated firmly. He took a few steps forward, which put Stormie on guard, but pivoted and grabbed a second scalpel from the table. With one quick move, he swiped the blade over the throat of the man on the table.

  Stormie’s eyes widened as she watched the man’s life fade.

  “Give me your scalpel,” Lasco said, his voice devoid of emotion as he held out his hand.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Stormie asked with disbelief.

  Lasco shook his head sadly. “I get that you want to kill me. I understand that it will give you closure, but I can offer you something better. Give me the scalpel. It will have my fingerprints on it. I will never receive absolution for my sins, not in any way that will make life easier for you. I can’t give you back your daughter, but I can offer you the chance at a new life. One without a reason to risk everything.”

  Stormie was confused. What’s his game? “Why should I believe you?” she asked, her hand still firmly clasped around the scalpel.

  Lasco shrugged. “You have a beautiful wife who loves you. You have friends. You have a successful career. What do I have? The guilt I carry has plagued every aspect of my life. I don’t have friends, because I won’t let anyone get close. I’ve never had more than a one-night stand, for the same reason. I have no family to speak of. I only became a cop to try and make amends for my past, and I’m not even good at that.”

  “Tell me everything. Why you killed each victim. Give me the details that will convince the authorities that I am the one who committed these murders. Let me give you back some of what I stole from you.”

  Stormie’s eyes widened, and her grip on the blade loosened. “You,” she paused, still not sure she believed him, “You want to take responsibility for the crimes I’ve committed?”

  Lasco nodded and smiled his first genuine smile in fifteen years. “I got away with taking a life. Yes, it was an accident, but the events that caused it were not. I took the motorcycle without permission. I was speeding down that street, and I blew through that stop sign. It was my deliberate actions that led to your daughter’s accidental death. Please, let me do this.”

  Stormie gazed into Lasco’s clear green eyes. She could see the remorse, and determination, on the man’s face. Slowly, bracing herself for hand-to-hand combat should he be deceiving her, Stormie handed the scalpel to him.

  Relief, like none he’d felt in fifteen years, flooded Lasco. He gripped the blade for a moment, before setting both back on the tool table. He turned back to Stormie, and met her eyes. She was still suspicious of him, and he couldn’t blame her. As a show of good faith, he worked his way around the room, touching everything he could find.

  “Tell me about them,” he said, “all of them. I need to know what to say during interrogation. Then, I want you to go upstairs and call the police. Tell them there was a break-in, and you can hear voices in the basement.”

  ***

  The ringing of her cell phone woke Cordy. “Weston,” she grumbled sleepily into the phone.

  “Cordy, you need to get down here, quick. We caught The Confessor!” The excitement in Gibson’s voice cleared the cobwebs from Cordy’s sleepy brain.

  “What? Where?” she demanded as she bolted out of bed. Her surprised voice woke Jenica, who turned on the bedside light.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” Jenica asked, once Cordy hung up the phone.

  “I have to go, sweetheart,” Cordy explained, as she tugged on a pair of jeans, “Gibson said we’ve got The Confessor.”

  Jenica was suddenly wide awake. Instead of excitement, however, her face fell with concern. “Stormie?” she asked cautiously.

  Cordy stopped, her t-shirt only half on. Gibson hadn’t said it was Stormie, but with the evidence they did have, it seemed more than likely that it was her.

  “I don’t know, baby,” she tried to be comforting, “Gibson didn’t say. If it isn’t her, I’ll call you, okay?”

  Jenica nodded sadly. She prayed that her wife would call. The thought of Oakley having a murderer for a wife broke Jenica’s heart.

  Cordy quickly finished dressing, grabbed her keys from the night stand, and kissed her wife deeply. She wanted to promise that everything would be alright, but she just couldn’t. With one more kiss to her wife, Cordy left to face a killer.

  ***

  “Are you sure about this?” Cordy asked, staring through the one-way mirror, “The profile said it would be a woman.”

  The observation room was packed around her. Detectives Arroyo, Khaleesi, Julius, Gomez, and Murphy stood behind Cordy, each murmuring their own surprise. Gibson and Lieutenant Baxter were on her left, and Agent Frost was on her right.

  “He doesn’t fit a single aspect of the profile,” Frost said, her voice full of awe.

  “Stormie called nine-one-one to report a break-in,” Gibson explained, “She said she was dropping off the last of the potting mix, for tomorrow’s CRBC garden party, and found a light on in the basement. She peaked through the little window, and saw a man tied to a table. She hid inside the storage shed, and called it in.”