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.

That night Coyle drank himself to sleep with the tapes still spinning. When he woke, the box was gone and his front door hung open. Someone had heard the recorder through the thin walls. They knew exactly what he'd found, and now they had it.