Page 36 of The Guilty Trial

The drive north toward Seattle took exactly one hour and seven minutes, the same as it every time he left Lakewood at this time of night. He drove five miles below the speed limit in the right lane, hands at ten and two. Other cars passed him impatiently, but he did not care. Predictability was safety. For him, routine was order.

His apartment building was located in a quiet neighborhood in north Seattle, a nondescript brick structure that housed twenty-four units. He parked in his assigned spot—number twelve, though he had requested a different number when he first moved in—and took a moment to ensure the car was perfectly centered within the painted lines. He checked twice, then locked the doors and tested each handle, walking clockwise around the car.

Inside the building, he bypassed the elevator and took the stairs. Elevators were unpredictable, full of variables he could not control. Up on the third floor, the hallway was empty, fluorescent lights humming overhead in an electric rhythm that set his teeth on edge. He counted his steps to unit 3-C. Thirty-one. Always thirty-one.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and immediately removed his shoes. They went onto the mat by the entrance, aligned perpendicular to the wall. He engaged both locks and the security chain, testing each one twice to be certain.

The apartment was exactly as he had left it that morning.

Sterile, organized, and empty.

No photographs adorned the walls. No decorations cluttered the surfaces. The walls were painted white. The furniture was minimal and functional: a couch that faced the window, a single chair, a dining table that served as his workspace. Everything had its place, and everything was in its place.

Except the numbers.

The numbers were never quiet for long.

On the table, documents were spread out in perfect rows. Photographs were arranged in a line, each one printed on identical paper, each one labeled with a number written in black marker. Sterling's photo had a red line drawn diagonally through it. Vance's photo bore the same mark. Three photographs remained unmarked, as if waiting.

He removed his jacket and hung it in the closet, aligning the hanger precisely with the others. His fingers brushed the sleeve, ensuring no wrinkles had formed during the drive. Satisfied, he moved to the counter and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves from the box he kept there. His hands trembled as he worked the gloves over his fingers, a fine tremor that did not stop until the latex was secure and smooth.

Then the trembling ceased.

He approached the table and stood over the photographs, running his gloved fingers across the surface of each one. The unmarked faces stared up at him, frozen in moments they had not known were being documented. The number twenty-two grew louder in his mind, insistent and demanding. It had been quiet for a few hours after Vance, a blessed silence that felt like exhaling after holding his breath too long. But the quiet never lasted. The numbers returned, louder and more urgent, and would until he gave them what they required.

The only way to silence them was to file them properly. That meant searing them into the flesh of the guilty party, to correct the record with permanence. Then, briefly, there was peace.

Ever since he left the institution, he'd had almost no peace at all.

St. John's Psychiatric Hospital. Even thinking the name made his fingers curl into fists, made the walls of the apartment seem closer than they were. He had spent four years there after the collapse, after the errors had been discovered, after the whole corrupted system had turned on him. Four years of white walls and supervised meals and medications that made his thoughts feel wrapped in cotton. They had called it a breakdown. They had called him unstable.

But she had visited him there, when no one else came.

She, of all people, understood.

Sitting across from him in that sterile visiting room with its bolted-down furniture and its smell of disinfectant, she had told him the truth. The chaos was not his fault. The prosecution had corrupted the evidence, not him. They had fabricated exhibits, manipulated the chain of custody, destroyed lives for their own advancement. And when it all fell apart, they had made him the scapegoat.

She had given him the files, slipped them to him during one of her visits. Documented proof of her claims. She explained that the only way to restore order was to recall what had happened, to correct the record with the precision it deserved.

And now, he felt as if he owed her everything.

He stood and walked to the kitchenette in measured steps. He opened the refrigerator, which contained only bottled water and individually wrapped protein bars. The bottles faced forward with their labels perfectly aligned. Each protein bar was stacked in chronological order based on expiration date. He removed one bar, checked the date, and unwrapped it with care.

He ate it in exactly twelve bites, chewing each bite twenty times before swallowing. This was the only way he could eat. Anything less and the numbers grew louder, their volume unbearable. Anything more and he felt untethered, adrift in a sea of variables.

When he finished, he folded the wrapper into a perfect square and placed it in the trash bin, which was lined with a fresh bag every morning.

He returned to the table and opened the black nylon case beside the photographs. Inside, his tools were arranged with surgical precision: a fixed-blade knife with a six-inch blade, sharpened to a mirror finish; an electric branding iron, modified with a custom numerical plate that could be changed to display any two-digit number; a set of lock picks arranged by size from smallest to largest; extra latex gloves; a small LED flashlight.

He removed the knife and held it beneath the overhead light, inspecting the blade for imperfections. The steel gleamed, flawless. He ran his gloved thumb along the edge, not quite touching its sharpness. The knife was an extension of his purpose, a tool of correction. So far, it had served him well.

He checked his watch: 22:17.

He should sleep, though he knew he would not. Sleep only came in brief, fractured intervals—two or three hours at most—and even then, the numbers invaded his dreams. He saw them on the walls, on the ceiling, glowing and pulsing in sequences that made no sense. Fourteen. Thirty-five. Twenty-two. They demanded acknowledgment. They had to be corrected.

He walked to the window and looked out at the street below. A car passed, its headlights cutting through the darkness. The license plate caught the glow of the streetlight as it drove away. The last two digits were twenty-two.

The number burned in his vision.