Mike stepped into the confessional. He was nervous, rubbing his damp palms together. He felt cramped looking side to side, seeing the priest's visage only through a screen. One leg jittered up and down. Mike crossed himself. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been … a while since my last confession."<br/><br/>"What is it you would like to confess, my son?"<br/><br/>"I uhm … This is – I mean. I gotta come out and say it, I guess. I've killed people, father. A lot of people. I did it because the people I work for told me to, and I got paid a lot of money for doing it."<br/><br/>"I can't absolve you of these sins, my son. Not unless you turn yourself in to the police."<br/><br/>"That's not happening, father. I think you know whom I work for, right?"<br/><br/>"I have a good idea."<br/><br/>"Then you know why I can't go to the cops."<br/><br/>"Then why come here? Why ask for something I cannot give?"<br/><br/>"Because I killed a kid. It was an accident – it doesn't matter how, but I killed a little boy." Mike's voice finally cracked as he clasped his hands together. His body shook. A tear threatened to fall from his left eye. "I guess I just needed to tell someone." There was a long pause as Mike stared at the handle on the door. He wanted to flee and never look back. "They call me St. Mike because I was good to kids. I gave them jobs, candy, and money to help their parents when I had it. I remember what it was like, growing up a kid on the streets. The guys – the guys I work for. They were good for me. So I wanted to pay it back or forward or whatever it is." A tear finally stained his face. "I guess I wanted to say I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I know you can't absolve me, father, but … I just wanted you to hear me."<br/><br/>Mike looked up. He was no longer in the confessional. Instead, he was in the basement of a building. "What the hell?" Cobwebs litter the walls and corners—old junk from a century ago, a baby carriage, model rocket, baseball, and choir robes stacked on each other.<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/><br/>"Monroe, Charlotte. It's good to meet you both." The detective nodded in each woman's direction. "Are either of you hurt? Do you need medical attention?" Alex looked over herself and found no bruises or scratches. Charlotte did the same and found a few minor scrapes on her legs.<br/><br/>"I'll be fine," she muttered. "But I don't know who that man was. He started chasing me, and I didn't stick around to find out."<br/><br/>"Monroe? What about you? Are you injured?" asked Alex again. "Why didn't you answer our knock before? It's okay if you were scared."<br/><br/>Suddenly loud footsteps clamored up from the basement, bolting through the door where the three women stood. "Where the hell am I? Who are you?" Like Alex, he reached for a gun in his jacket but found nothing. "Somebody tell me what's going on!"