“Leo Castellano.”
And then he opened his mouth.
Leo’s mouth went dry. “Confess what?”
The room was small, windowless, painted matte black. In the center, a single wooden chair under a bare bulb. And in the chair, a man in a vintage suit, no tie, holding a vintage microphone on a long cord. He had the face of a faded silent film star—sharp cheekbones, hollow eyes.
“Sit,” the man said.
“I… I’m an actor,” Leo said, his voice cracking. “I do improv. I can give you a monologue.”
“Anything. Everything. The thing you told no one. The thing you did at summer camp. The thing you think about at 3 AM when you can’t sleep.”
Then she was gone. The other figures filed out. The man in the suit picked up his microphone and began coiling the cord.