THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Grave
The cemetery was old.
The stones were weathered, the names faded, the grass overgrown. The rain fell in sheets, turning the dirt paths to mud, soaking the flowers that had been left on the graves of the forgotten.
Nora parked at the gate.
She sat in the car, her hands on the wheel, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the headlights. The clock on her dashboard read 2:47 AM. Thirteen minutes until the fifth bell.
The fifth victim was safe.
But the sixth was waiting.
At her sister’s grave.
Miles sat beside her.
“Are you sure about this?”
“No.”
“Then let’s wait for backup.”
“There’s no time.”
“Nora—”
“She’s been waiting for fifteen years. I’m not letting her wait any longer.”
She got out of the car.
The rain hit her face like needles.
She walked through the gate.
The cemetery was vast.
The graves stretched in every direction, hundreds of them, thousands, a city of the dead. Nora knew where her sister was buried. She had attended the funeral. She had watched them lower the casket into the ground. She had walked away without looking back.
She had never returned.
Until now.
She followed the path.
The rain washed the mud from her boots.
The wind howled through the trees.
The shadows watched.
The grave was at the edge of the cemetery, beneath an old oak tree, its branches bare, its leaves scattered across the ground. The headstone was small, simple, unadorned.
Lena Cross. Beloved Daughter. Beloved Sister. Gone Too Soon.
Nora knelt.
The mud soaked through her pants.
She touched the stone.
It was cold.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The wind howled.
The rain fell.
The silence stretched.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
Tall. Thin. Wearing a dark coat, a wide-brimmed hat, a scarf pulled up over his face.
The Bellman.
“Hello, Detective.”
Nora stood.
Her hand went to her gun.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t draw your weapon. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then why are you here?”
He stepped closer.
The rain fell around him.
“I’m here to tell you the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“About your sister. About the night she died. About the person who killed her.”
Nora’s blood went cold.
“You know who killed her?”
“I know everything.”
“Tell me.”
The Bellman reached up.
He pulled down his scarf.
He removed his hat.
The rain washed over his face.
Nora stared.
She knew him.
“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said.
“It’s me.”