THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Aftermath
The days that followed were a blur.
Nora went through the motions — meetings with internal affairs, interviews with prosecutors, counseling sessions mandated by the department. She answered the same questions again and again, told the same story again and again, relived the same nightmare again and again.
When did you first suspect Miles was the Bellman?
She hadn’t. Not until the cemetery. Not until he removed his mask. Not until she saw his face.
Why did you go to the cabin alone?
Because there was no time. Because she couldn’t wait. Because she had to save the seventh victim.
The seventh victim was you.
Yes.
Miles never intended to hurt you.
No.
He wanted to help you.
He wanted to save me.
From what?
From myself.
The press had a field day.
HEADLINE: “DETECTIVE’S PARTNER REVEALED AS SERIAL KILLER”
SUBHEADLINE: “Miles Vane, 47, charged with four counts of murder in vigilante killing spree”
The reporters camped outside her apartment, outside the precinct, outside her favorite coffee shop. They shouted questions, thrust microphones in her face, snapped photographs of her with tears in her eyes.
She ignored them.
She had nothing to say.
She had everything to feel.
Captain Thorne called her into her office on the third day.
“Sit down, Cross.”
Nora sat.
Thorne pushed a file across the desk.
“Your psych evaluation.”
Nora didn’t open it.
“How bad?”
“Better than expected. Worse than hoped.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not crazy. But you’re not okay.”
“I know.”
“The department is putting you on administrative leave. Sixty days. Mandatory therapy. Weekly check-ins.”
“For what? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You drove to a remote location without backup. You confronted a known serial killer alone. You withheld evidence from your superiors.”
“I was trying to save lives.”
“You were trying to save yourself.”
Nora was silent.
Thorne leaned back.
“I’m not punishing you, Cross. I’m giving you time. Time to heal. Time to grieve. Time to figure out who you are without this job.”
“This job is who I am.”
“No. This job is what you do. Who you are is something else.”
“And what’s that?”
Thorne looked at her.
“I don’t know. That’s for you to find out.”
Nora left the precinct at noon.
The sun was bright. The sky was blue. The city was alive.
She walked to her car.
She sat in the driver’s seat.
She didn’t start the engine.
She sat.
She stared at the dashboard.
She thought about Lena. About Miles. About the photograph still in her pocket.
She pulled it out.
Lena’s face stared back at her.
Smiling.
Alive.
Gone.
“I’m sorry,” Nora whispered.
The silence answered.
She started the car.
She drove.
Not home. Not to the precinct. Not to the cemetery.
She drove to the cabin.