“I slept with my wife’s sister,” said another. “My nephew is really my son.”

“My daughter thinks her puppy ran away,” the next one said. “I drowned it because we couldn’t feed it anymore.”

As they made their way around the wall, reading secrets on subjects ranging from gross cruelty to generational lies, Smithson seemed to become more engrossed. Coletti was bored, yet when he looked at the other patrons who’d come to see the exhibit, he saw faces filled with angst and contrition, disgust and remorse, and yet another expression that was universal among everyone there. They were riveted.

Coletti felt sorry for them. Then he felt annoyed by them. His eyes scanned the room until they fell upon the blond hostess and another gallery employee—a wiry man with spiked black hair and a collared shirt. The two of them were having an animated discussion in the corner, whispering urgently while engaging in a tug-of-war over a stack of confessions like the ones on the wall.

Coletti wandered over to them, leaving Smithson to read the last few confessions alone.

“All out of chenin blanc, huh?” Coletti said, interrupting their conversation.

“Please, sir, we really need a few moments, if you don’t mind,” the man said politely.

“Well, I sorta do mind, because if you’re looking at something more exciting than the crap on the wall over there, you need to share it with the rest of us.”

“Look, Grandpa, mind your own damn business. We’ve got a crisis here.”

The blonde’s genteel pronunciation and manner were gone now. She sounded like a broad who’d spent more than her fair share of time in bars.

“Crisis?” Coletti said, flashing his badge self-righteously. “I deal with crisis all the time.”

The hostess exchanged a worried look with the spike-haired man. They were quiet for what seemed like an eternity. The man was the first to speak.

“I’m the curator. My name’s Peter Bloom. Seems we have a confession here that’s a little different from a lot of the others. I saw some guy leave it on the desk a couple minutes ago.”

“Well, what does it say?” Coletti asked as Smithson came alongside him.

The man hesitated, and Coletti snatched the sheets of paper from him. He read the first one quickly and tossed it aside. He did the same with the second. When he got to the third, the blood drained from his face.

“What is it?” Smithson asked worriedly.

Coletti looked at her with fear and uncertainty in his eyes. “It says, ‘I’m the angel of death. I escaped Coletti ten years ago, and in less than twenty-four hours, I’ll kill again.’”