THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Fourth Bell
The precinct was chaos.
The third-floor bullpen buzzed with activity — phones ringing, keyboards clacking, voices overlapping in a frantic symphony of urgency and fear. The Bellman had been calling news stations, taunting reporters, feeding them details that had not been released to the public. The press was camped outside the building, their vans lining the street, their cameras pointed at the doors.
Nora stood at the main board, staring at the photographs.
Four victims now.
One dead. One rescued. Two still missing.
The clock was ticking.
1:22 AM.
Thirty-eight minutes until the third bell.
She had no new leads. No new clues. No new locations.
Just a voice.
And a countdown.
Miles walked to her, a cup of coffee in each hand.
He offered her one.
She took it.
The liquid was hot and bitter and exactly what she needed.
“The woman from the warehouse is talking,” he said.
“What did she say?”
“Not much. She was unconscious when he took her. Woke up in the chair. Never saw his face.”
“He wore a mask?”
“He wore a hood. Kept his head down. Spoke in a whisper.”
“Accent?”
“None. Educated. Controlled.”
“Same as the call.”
“Same as the call.”
Captain Thorne emerged from her office.
Her face was hard, her eyes sharp, her voice cold.
“Cross. Vane. My office. Now.”
They followed her inside.
She closed the door.
“The mayor is calling every hour. The commissioner is calling every thirty minutes. The press is calling every five.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
“Everything is not enough.”
“We need more time.”
“The Bellman isn’t giving you more time. He’s giving you seven hours. You’ve used two.”
Nora’s jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“Then find him.”
The third bell rang at 1:00 AM.
Nora was in the forensic lab, standing over a evidence board, studying photographs of the first victim’s apartment. Dr. Aris Chen stood beside her, her magnifying lenses flipped up, her dark eyes fixed on the images.
“The killer left nothing,” Chen said.
“Nothing?”
“No fingerprints. No DNA. No fibers. No footprints. He’s clean.”
“He’s careful.”
“He’s professional.”
“He’s someone who knows how to avoid detection.”
Chen nodded.
“Police? Military? Intelligence?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just watched a lot of crime shows.”
Nora shook her head.
“This isn’t television. This is real. He’s done this before.”
“You think he has other victims? Ones we don’t know about?”
“I think he’s been practicing.”
Her phone buzzed.
PRIVATE NUMBER.
She answered.
“You’re running out of time, Detective.”
“I know.”
“The third victim is at the old theater on Grand Avenue. You have thirty minutes.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I told you. Justice.”
“Justice for my sister?”
The Bellman was silent.
“She disappeared fifteen years ago. No body. No witnesses. No suspects.”
“I know.”
“Were you involved?”
The Bellman laughed.
It was a soft sound, almost gentle, almost sad.
“I was there, Detective. I saw everything.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw a girl who was afraid. A girl who called her sister for help. A sister who didn’t answer.”
Nora’s blood went cold.
“She called me?”
“Three times. You were in a lecture. You let it go to voicemail. She left a message.”
“There was no message.”
“Listen again, Detective. The message is there. You just never played it.”
The line went dead.
Nora stared at the phone.
Her hands were shaking.
Miles stood in the doorway.
“Nora?”
“I need to go home.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“The victim—”
“I know where she is. Send a unit. I’ll meet them there.”
“Nora—”
She pushed past him.
She ran.
The drive to her apartment took twelve minutes.
She made it in nine.
The building was old, its hallways narrow, its elevator broken. She took the stairs two at a time, her boots echoing on the concrete, her heart pounding in her chest.
She burst through her door.
The apartment was dark.
She didn’t turn on the lights.
She went to her bedroom.
She opened her closet.
In the back, behind her shoes, behind her coats, behind her memories, was a box.
Old. Dusty. Unopened.
She pulled it out.
She sat on the floor.
She opened the lid.
Inside: photographs. Letters. Newspaper clippings.
And a phone.
Her old phone.
The one she had used fifteen years ago.
She pressed the power button.
The screen glowed to life.
Three missed calls.
From her sister.
The last one: 11:47 PM.
She pressed play.
Static.
Then a voice.
Her sister’s voice.
Young. Terrified. Desperate.
“Nora. It’s Lena. I need you. Please. He’s here. He’s—”
The message ended.
She had never heard it before.
She had never played it.
She had never known.