They took Father Coyle's collar two winters ago, but no one ever took back his key. The old church sat dark and empty now. He let himself in the side door, looking for the leftover wine. Instead he heard a rattle behind the confessional wall. He pried off a strip of rotten wood and found a reel-to-reel recorder hidden inside, the tape labeled in the dead sexton's shaky hand: 1971 to last March. Coyle pressed play. A woman's voice filled the booth: "I killed him, Father. And no one ever knew."

Coyle's hands shook. He rewound and listened again. The woman kept talking. She described a man's body, a frozen pond, a winter long ago. He knew the voice but couldn't place it. He grabbed the whole box of tapes and carried them home to listen to every one.

One tape stood out. The same young man confessed three winters in a row, each time to a different killing. The last one was dated only last March. Whoever he was, he was still out there, still doing it. Coyle had to find out who.

Coyle matched the voice to Danny Voss, the choir director everyone adored. The newest confession named a hiker who'd "wandered off" last fall and was never found. Coyle now held proof of a killer the whole town loved. He had to decide who would ever believe him.

Coyle went to Danny alone, hoping to save his soul before the law took his body. It was a mistake. Danny smiled, calm as Sunday, and locked the door. But Coyle had left his own recorder running in his pocket. When Danny lunged, Coyle fought free into the hall, the threat caught on tape. The town heard it by morning.