Memory's False Witness

I filed for federal disability because my mind had split in two—one half a meek insurance clerk, the other the Admirer of the Velvet Strangler. But when the killings started to mirror the fragmented blackouts I confessed to my caseworker, I discovered that memory is the most dishonest witness of all. In the sweltering heat of Ashford, Caldera, the line between an innocent claimant and a pathological copycat blurs, and the truth becomes just another fatal illusion.