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“Then what do you want?”

“Access.” Meeting her gaze, I kept my voice steady. “To the records. The confessions. Everything the House collects.”

She smiled. “And what would you do with them?”

“Whatever I want.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.” Crossing my arms, I leaned against the doorframe. “You’re collecting secrets, but you're not using them. You’re just filing them away like evidence in a trial that never happens. I could turn them into something useful.”

“Useful to whom?”

“To me.” I didn’t bother lying. “And to you, if you’re smart.”

Evangeline studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she gestured toward a door at the back of the room. “Come with me.”

I followed her down a narrow staircase into a basement that smelled like old paper and something metallic I couldn’t identify. The walls were lined with filing cabinets, each one labeled with a name, a date, and a single word: Claimed. Retained. Converted.

“This is the archive,” Evangeline said, running her fingers along the nearest cabinet. “Every confession the House has ever recorded. Every secret. Every lie. Every moment of weakness.”

“How many?”

“Thousands.” Opening a drawer, she pulled out a file and handed it to me. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Power over people who thought their secrets were safe.”

I opened the file. Inside were photographs, transcripts, recordings—everything the House had collected on a woman who’d confessed to killing her infant daughter. The evidence was meticulous, organized, damning.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“She’s still here.” Evangeline closed the drawer. “The House doesn’t let go of things it’s claimed.”

“And you want me to do what, exactly?”

“I want you to become the Madman.” Turning to face me, she crossed her arms. “The House needs someone who understands how to turn secrets into leverage. Someone who can organize the records, categorize the confessions, and make sure every piece of evidence is filed correctly.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re already doing it.” Her gaze sharpened. “You’ve been collecting secrets for years. You know how to exploit them. And you don’t care about the people you hurt.”

She was right.

“What’s the cost?” I asked.

“You perform the founding act.” Gesturing toward the stairs, she started walking. “You bring someone to the House, extract their confession, and turn it into a public performance. If the House accepts it, you become the Madman. If it doesn’t, you leave and never come back.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you’re just another guest.” Stopping at the top of the stairs, she looked back at me. “And the House will find someone else.”

I didn’t refuse.

I chose a woman named Margaret Hale.

She was thirty-four, married to a lawyer, and she’d been having an affair with her husband’s business partner for two years. I had photographs of them together, recordings of their conversations, receipts from the hotel rooms they’d rented. She’d paid me ten thousand dollars to keep the evidence buried.

I told her I needed more.

She met me at a café, her hands shaking as she slid an envelope across the table. “This is everything I have.”