The view was that of a first-person video game. The image moved as the person wearing the camera advanced into the room. She heard the door shut and she knew what was about to happen. In the video, Morgan wore a long wig, twisted into double braids, and lipstick the shade of blood. A plaid schoolgirl skirt left little to the imagination. She stared doe-eyed up at the guest, whose hand came into view as they peeled her bra strap down over her shoulder.

“Let’s play,” Video Morgan whispered. She offered up her hands, knuckles folded and pressed together in the shape of a heart, waiting to be undone.

“That depends,” said the guest. “Have you been naughty or nice?”

Video Morgan gave her best catlike smize. “Naughty.”

Before she’d finished saying the word, the guest grabbed her by the neck and squeezed. In the house on Winslow Street, Morgan felt heady, as though his hands were around her throat now.

“There’s a wooden bat in the corner. Why don’t you punish me properly?” whispered Video Morgan.

A carnal sound rumbled from the guest, a laugh. And then suddenly, it was cut by a yelp that evolved into heavy breathing. His hands let go of her, not by her command, but because he’d suddenly lost control of them. The camera lurched forward, showing Video Morgan expertly dodging out of the way as the guest’s body crashed to the floor. A groan that sounded like white noise crackled in his throat.

Video Morgan disappeared off-screen.

Watching from her old bedroom, Morgan knew what came next. But she didn’t tear her eyes away. She wanted to see what her guests saw in their final seconds before being marked forever, exposed to the world for what they truly were. Monsters. Wolves in sheep’s wool. Ruined souls who ruined souls.

Video Morgan returned, wielding a glowing red branding iron. She straddled the paralyzed guest and, in her old room on Winslow Street, Morgan listened to the sibilant sound of scorching metal stamping into human flesh.

22 HUDSON

The funny thing about Black Harbor PD was that, although they had Interview Rooms #1 and #3, there was no #2. Interview Room #3 was reserved for children and victims of sensitive crimes. A blanket ladder leaned against one of the dove-grey walls, next to a basket of toys. The furniture was akin to what you’d see in someone’s home: overstuffed chairs with ottomans, a matching couch. Beneath the window that overlooked the annex building and municipal parking lot, as well as his house, was a bookshelf filled with secondhand picture books. He’d spent a fair amount of time in that room, building rapport with children who were either too scared to speak or whose parents had coached them on what lies to tell.