THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Truth
The candle flickered.
The rain tapped against the roof.
The wind whispered through the cracks in the walls.
Nora stood in the center of the cabin, the photograph still clutched in her hand, her partner’s words still echoing in her ears.
The Bellman was never real. The Bellman was always you.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“It will.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Miles stepped closer.
His cuffed hands hung at his sides.
His face was pale in the candlelight.
“The Bellman is not a person. The Bellman is a idea. An idea that you created. An idea that you fed. An idea that you could not control.”
“I didn’t create anything.”
“You created a killer. In your mind. In your reports. In your obsession.”
“I was trying to find justice for Lena.”
“You were trying to find someone to blame.”
Nora’s throat tightened.
“Someone killed her.”
“Yes.”
“And you know who?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
Miles was silent for a long moment.
The rain fell harder.
The wind grew louder.
The candle burned lower.
“It was you,” he said.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Nora stared at him.
Her hands were shaking.
Her heart was pounding.
Her breath was shallow.
“That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You were there. In her head. In her heart. In her final thoughts.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is to her.”
“She’s dead.”
“She’s dead. But her memory is not. Her pain is not. Her fear is not.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“You didn’t save her. Sometimes that’s the same thing.”
Nora looked at the photograph.
At Lena’s face.
At her smile.
At her eyes.
“I tried to save her.”
“Did you?”
“I called the police. I filed a report. I searched for years.”
“You did all those things. But you never came back here. You never stood in this cabin. You never faced the place where she died.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Same thing.”
He shook his head.
“No. Couldn’t is fear. Wouldn’t is choice. You chose to forget.”
The candle went out.
The cabin was dark.
The rain was loud.
Nora stood in the blackness, her sister’s photograph pressed against her chest, her partner’s words cutting through her like blades.
“The seventh victim,” she said.
“Is you.”
“The seventh bell.”
“Is for you.”
“What do I have to do?”
He was silent for a long moment.
“Forgive yourself.”