"The Confession Booth"

"The Confession Booth"

Detective Sarah Monroe had seen a lot in her ten years on the force. But nothing like the case of The Midnight Confessor.

Over the past three weeks, someone had been leaving handwritten confessions in the old cathedral downtown. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Just a single piece of paper, every Friday at midnight, tucked neatly into the confessional. Each note described a crime—real ones. Bank robberies. Assaults. Arsons. And they matched unsolved cases going back ten years.

The confessions were always signed with the same three letters: "R.E.D."

At first, no one believed they were real. Pranks, maybe. But when the confession about the 2018 Vico Jewelry heist described details only the police and the thief could know, the department launched an official investigation. Cameras were installed. Officers were posted. Still, R.E.D. slipped in and out without a trace.

Sarah volunteered for the stakeout.

Friday, 11:57 p.m.

She sat quietly in the back pew of the cathedral, lights dimmed, pistol at her hip. The stone walls echoed with the occasional creak, and candlelight flickered in the shadows. Rain tapped against the stained-glass windows.

At exactly midnight, the door creaked open.

A hooded figure entered. Tall. Lean. Confident.

They walked past her, as if knowing exactly where to go, and slipped into the confessional on the left.

Sarah moved quickly, silently. She entered the booth on the right, heart pounding.

She spoke into the screen. "You're under surveillance. Come out with your hands up."

Silence.

Then a voice—low, calm, almost amused—answered:

"Detective Monroe. I've been expecting you."

Sarah froze. "Who are you?"

"A man with a guilty conscience," he said. "And a need to be heard."

"You’re R.E.D."

"Names are a funny thing, aren’t they? Sometimes they hide us. Sometimes they reveal too much."

She pushed open the booth door, gun raised. But the left booth was empty.

Empty—except for a fresh letter.

She grabbed it with gloved hands and read it.

“I committed my first crime when I was seventeen. A lie. A cover-up. And the death of an innocent man. I let my father take the fall. He died in prison. I became a cop. Seemed poetic. The sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

Sarah’s heart stopped.

“The badge let me move freely. Touch evidence. Mislead cases. You’ve shaken my rhythm, Detective. And that’s good. Because this will be my final confession. And it’s about you.”

The letter ended with a time: “Look inside your desk drawer, Saturday. Midnight.”

She rushed out of the cathedral, called it in, reviewed the tapes—nothing. No one saw him enter or leave. Like a ghost.

The next night, the station was nearly empty at midnight. Sarah sat at her desk, alone. Rain tapped the windows again. Same as before.

She hesitated, then slowly opened her drawer.

Inside: another letter. No fingerprints. Just a single line, written in red ink.

“You buried something too, didn’t you?”

A chill ran down her spine.

Then she saw it. A photo—an old one. From her academy days. She was standing next to her ex-partner, Logan Parrish. The man whose shooting had earned her a medal and left Logan in a coma.

Only this photo was altered.

Someone had circled her holster in red ink.

She grabbed the phone—but the line was dead.

The lights flickered.

Then went out.

She pulled her gun, heart pounding, and crept down the hallway. Every step echoed. The air felt heavier. Wrong.

From the end of the corridor, someone whispered:

"Confess, and it all stops."

She spun around. Nothing.

Back at her desk, the monitor glowed—her desktop camera had been turned on. A live feed. Of her. Right now.

She unplugged the computer.

Then her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

A single text:

“You killed Logan. He didn’t shoot first. You did. You lied. And I’m not the only one who knows.”

She collapsed into her chair.

Because it was true.

Logan hadn’t drawn first. She panicked. Fired. Then covered it up, and everyone believed her.

And someone—R.E.D.—knew.

She stared at the final note again. The handwriting. The language. Something clicked.

It wasn’t a man.

It was her partner—Detective Lisa Grant.

Always quiet. Always watching. Obsessed with old case files.

The next morning, Lisa was gone.

No trace.

Just one more note on Sarah’s desk.

“The next confession is yours. Or I’ll make it for you.”

Want a part two? I can continue the mystery with a cat-and-mouse game, flashbacks, or a courtroom thriller twist.