The Sentence
The courtroom fell silent.
The judge, a woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and eyes that had seen too much, stared down at Iris from behind the bench. Her expression was unreadable. She had presided over hundreds of cases — murders, robberies, assaults — but something about this one was different. She could feel it in the air, thick and heavy, like smoke before a fire.
“Ms. Cole,” the judge said, “you have confessed to twelve counts of first-degree murder. Do you understand the seriousness of this admission?”
Iris stood tall. Her hands were trembling, but her voice was steady.
“I do, Your Honor.”
“And you wish to waive your right to a trial?”
“I do.”
The prosecutor, a sharp-faced man in an expensive suit, leaned over to whisper to his assistant. The gallery behind Iris buzzed with whispered conversations. Reporters scribbled in notebooks. Family members of the victims wept.
Iris didn’t look at them. She couldn’t. Their grief was too heavy, too real, too much.
Her lawyer tugged at her sleeve. “Iris, please. Sit down. Let me handle this.”
“No.”
“You’re throwing away your life.”
“My life was already gone. I just didn’t know it.”
The judge banged her gavel.
“Order. Order in the court.”
The noise subsided. The judge turned to the prosecutor.
“Does the state accept the defendant’s plea?”
The prosecutor stood. “The state accepts, Your Honor. But we request the maximum sentence. Twelve consecutive life terms without the possibility of parole.”
Iris’s lawyer stood. “Your Honor, my client is mentally ill. She has been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. She was not in control of her actions.”
The prosecutor scoffed. “A convenient defense for a serial killer.”
“The evidence supports it.”
“The evidence supports that her fingerprints were on twelve victims. That’s not a disorder. That’s a pattern.”
The judge raised her hand. “Enough.”
She turned to Iris.
“Ms. Cole, I have reviewed the psychiatric reports. I have reviewed the evidence. I have reviewed your confession. You have admitted to these crimes. You have shown remorse. But remorse does not bring back the dead.”
Iris nodded.
“Before I pass sentence, do you have anything to say?”
Iris took a breath.
“Your Honor, I don’t remember killing those people. I don’t remember their faces. I don’t remember their screams. But I know I did it. Something inside me — something dark, something hungry — took over. It used my hands. It used my body. It used my life.”
She paused.
“I am not asking for forgiveness. I am not asking for mercy. I am asking for help. Help to make sure the thing inside me never hurts anyone again.”
The courtroom was silent.
The judge studied Iris for a long moment.
Then she spoke.
“Ms. Cole, I am sentencing you to twelve consecutive life terms. You will be remanded to the custody of the State Department of Corrections. However, I am also ordering that you receive psychiatric treatment during your incarceration. If progress is made, you may be eligible for transfer to a mental health facility.”
She banged her gavel.
“Court is adjourned.”
The guards led Iris away.
Faces blurred past her — her lawyer, Detective Walsh, the prosecutor, the families. She didn’t look at any of them. She kept her eyes forward, her shoulders straight, her hands cuffed in front of her.
The holding cell was small, cold, and dark.
She sat on the bench and waited.
The voice whispered:
You shouldn’t have confessed.
Why?
Because now they’ll lock you away. Now we’ll be trapped.
We need to be trapped.
We need to be free.
I need to be free of you.
The voice laughed.
You can never be free of me. I am you.
Iris closed her eyes.
She was in the white room.
The light was dimmer now, the edges frayed, the silence heavy. Her father was there — the thing wearing her father’s face — but he looked different. Weaker. His skin was gray, his eyes dull, his body slumped.
You’re fading, Iris said.
I’m hungry.
Good.
You need me.
I need to be rid of you.
You can’t be rid of me. I’m part of you. I’ll always be part of you.
Iris stepped closer.
Then I’ll starve you. I’ll lock you away. I’ll throw away the key.
Her father’s face twisted. You can’t—
Watch me.
Iris opened her eyes.
She was in the cell.
The door was opening.
A guard stood in the doorway. “Let’s go.”
She stood up.
The prison was gray, cold, and loud. Women in jumpsuits moved through the hallways, their eyes hard, their faces blank. Iris was led to a cell — small, with a metal bunk, a toilet, a sink.
“Welcome home,” the guard said.
Iris sat on the bunk.
The voice was silent.
She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.