THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Fifth Bell
The voicemail played again.
And again.
And again.
Nora sat on the floor of her closet, the old phone clutched in her hands, her sister’s voice echoing in her ears. “Nora. It’s Lena. I need you. Please. He’s here. He’s—” The message cut off. A scream. A struggle. Then silence.
Fifteen years.
She had carried this phone for fifteen years. She had kept it in this box, in this closet, in this apartment, untouched, unopened, unremembered.
She had told herself she had checked for messages.
She had told herself there was nothing there.
She had lied.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked at the screen.
PRIVATE NUMBER.
She answered.
“You found the message,” the Bellman said.
“I found it.”
“You never listened to it before.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Nora was silent for a long moment.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of knowing. Afraid of the truth. Afraid of what I would find.”
“And now?”
“Now I know.”
“What do you know?”
She closed her eyes.
Her sister’s voice echoed in her head.
“I know I failed her.”
The Bellman was silent.
Then, softly:
“We all fail, Detective. The question is what we do after.”
“Is that why you’re doing this? To make me remember?”
“I’m doing this to make you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That you are not the only one who lost someone that night. That you are not the only one who carries guilt. That you are not the only one who is still searching.”
“Who are you?”
“I am the one who found what you lost.”
The line went dead.
Nora stared at the phone.
Her hands were shaking.
She looked at the clock on her nightstand.
1:47 AM.
Thirteen minutes until the fourth bell.
She had a victim to save.
She had a killer to catch.
She had a past to face.
She stood.
She walked to the bathroom.
She splashed cold water on her face.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes were red.
Her face was pale.
Her hands were steady.
She left the apartment.
The rain had stopped.
The streets were wet.
The city was quiet.
Her car was parked at the curb. She got in. She started the engine. She drove.
Miles called.
“Nora. Where are you?”
“On my way to the theater.”
“The old theater on Grand?”
“Yes.”
“We have a unit en route. ETA ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“Nora—”
“I know.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
The theater loomed out of the darkness like a tomb.
Its marquee was dark, its windows boarded, its doors chained. The rain had left puddles on the sidewalk, reflecting the red and blue lights of the police cruisers that were already arriving.
Nora parked behind a patrol car.
She got out.
The air was cold and damp.
She walked to the theater doors.
The chains had been cut.
The locks had been broken.
He had been here.
Miles arrived as she was pushing open the doors.
“Wait for backup.”
“There’s no time.”
“Nora—”
“The fourth bell rings in seven minutes. I’m not letting another victim die.”
She stepped inside.
The darkness was absolute.
She pulled out her flashlight.
The beam cut through the shadows, illuminating rows of empty seats, a stage draped in dust, a balcony lost in shadow.
And on the stage, a chair.
Empty.
The fourth bell rang at 2:00 AM.
Nora stood on the stage, staring at the empty chair.
Her phone buzzed.
She answered.
“You’re too late, Detective.”
“The chair is empty.”
“The chair is empty.”
“Where is she?”
“The fourth victim is already dead. Has been for hours. I just wanted you to see where she died.”
Nora’s blood went cold.
“Why?”
“Because you need to understand the stakes. Because you need to feel the weight. Because you need to know what’s coming.”
“What’s coming?”
The Bellman was silent.
“The sixth bell.”