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Evangeline handed her a microphone. “Tell them what you did.”
Margaret’s voice was barely audible. “I . . . I had an affair.”
“Louder.”
“I had an affair with my husband’s business partner.”
The audience murmured, their masks tilting slightly as they processed the confession.
“For how long?” Evangeline asked.
“Two years.”
“And does your husband know?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid.” Tears streamed down Margaret’s face, and her voice broke. “I’m afraid he’ll leave me. I’m afraid I’ll lose my children. I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid of the truth.” Evangeline’s tone was cold. “You’re afraid that if people knew what you really are, they wouldn’t love you anymore.”
“Yes.”
“Then let them see.”
The lights shifted, and a screen descended from the ceiling. On it, projected in high definition, were the photographs I'd taken. Margaret and her lover in a hotel room. Margaret and her lover in a car. Margaret and her lover kissing in a parking garage.
Margaret screamed.
The audience didn’t move.
“This is what you wanted to hide,” Evangeline said, gesturing to the screen. “This is the truth you paid to bury. But the House doesn’t accept payment. It accepts confession.”
“Please,” Margaret sobbed. “Please, turn it off.”
“Do you regret what you did?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you could take it back?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.” Evangeline stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that the microphone still caught. “Say you regret it. Say you wish you’d never done it. Say you’ll do anything to make it stop.”
“I regret it,” Margaret said, her voice raw. “I wish I’d never done it. I’ll do anything—”
“Good.” Evangeline turned to the audience. “The House accepts her confession. She is retained.”
The lights went out.
When they came back on, Margaret was gone.
Evangeline found me in the archive an hour later.
“Where is she?” I asked.
