Free Confession by Carey Baldwin Page A

retard?”
    He looked up through his tears, expecting to see Sister Bernadette, bounding to her feet, shaking her fist at him. But it wasn’t her.
    Bernadette was dead—­he’d killed her years ago.
    For the second time that morning, he fell to his knees, and the oddest thing happened. As he wiped the blood drops off the floor, they burned right through his glove. Right through his skin, sizzling like spilled acid. He saw blisters rising on his arms, the blood boiling inside his veins. If he didn’t get the blood off him, his whole body would catch fire. “No! No! No!” Tearing off the bloody gloves, he crawled across the floor, as far and as fast as he could go.
    Wilhelmina screamed for help.
    He covered his ears.
    Curled into a tight ball.
    Began to cry.

 
    SEVEN
    Tuesday, July 23, 9:00 A.M.
    F aith winced at the clock in the police interrogation room. Nine in the morning. She’d been here since seven, and the detective who’d insisted she arrive promptly had just now swaggered into the room. Last night, despite her weariness, she’d tossed and turned for the better part of the night, unable to forget about either Dante’s confession or the black-­haired man in her kitchen. New locks and the authorities’ assurance that the man would not likely return had been some comfort, but not enough to result in a restful night. And now, thanks to the tardy detective, she hadn’t gotten her morning run in, which meant she wouldn’t be sleeping tonight either. It was far too easy for her to regress to her old insomniac ways. Ways that harkened back to the time of her parents’ accident.
    Closing her eyes, she pictured Grace, sitting at the foot of her bed offering a cup of warm milk, after Ma and Da died. Do you want me to sing you a lullaby? Grace had asked. But Faith had declared she only wanted Ma to sing to her and turned her sister away.
    She swallowed past the lump in her throat and set down her water bottle, glaring around the stark room. Detective Howard Johnson referred to this oversized closet as an interview room, but she knew it was the same place the police interrogated murderers and thieves. Wire cages that covered not only the windows but the ceiling tiles as well were strategically placed to prevent suspects from escaping through the vents. The whole ambience was designed to wrest control from the interviewee and give the interviewer a decided psychological advantage. Which was all well and good for prisoners and suspects, but she was neither. She was a trained professional, and she was cooperating fully. Narrowing her eyes at the big two-­way mirror on the far wall, she barely managed to resist the urge to shoot the bird at whoever was behind it.
    Sleep deprivation made her cranky.
    â€œNobody there. They’re all across the hall watching us on computer screens. These two-­way mirrors are practically obsolete, but it’s not worth tearing them down.” Detective Johnson balanced his beefy body, made even bulkier by the Kevlar vest buttoned under his shirt, atop a flimsy laminate table, and swung his feet off her side. Rather than sitting across from her in the opposite chair, he loomed over her, invading her personal space. A controlling and completely unnecessary move.
    When one giant, swinging shoe narrowly missed her kneecap, she flinched. “Is there some particular reason you’re treating me like a hostile witness, Detective?”
    â€œYou’ve got the wrong idea there, little lady.” He winked at her and followed that up with a loud belch, making her wonder if he’d just had a long leisurely steak-­and-­egg breakfast while she sat waiting obediently in an interrogation room that stank of body odor and sour milk.
    Her teeth clenched, and she deliberately relaxed her jaw, smiled sweetly. “Do I really have it all wrong, Howie ?”
    His face flushed. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of