THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Face of the Bellman
The rain fell harder.
It streamed down the Bellman’s face, washing over the familiar features — the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the dark eyes that had looked at her a thousand times across desks, across crime scenes, across coffee cups.
Miles Vane.
Her partner.
Her friend.
Her confidant.
The man she had trusted with her life.
“You,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years.”
“You were there.”
“I was there.”
“You watched her die.”
He was silent for a long moment.
The rain filled the space between them.
“No,” he said. “I watched her live. I watched her suffer. I watched her wait for you.”
Nora’s hand tightened on her gun.
“Why?”
“Because she called you. Because she needed you. Because you were the only one who could save her.”
“And you?”
“I was the one who took her.”
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Her vision blurred.
Her breath stopped.
Her heart pounded.
“You killed my sister.”
“I killed your sister. I buried your sister. I mourned your sister.”
“You mourned her?”
“Every day. Every night. Every hour.”
Nora raised her gun.
The barrel pointed at his chest.
“Give me one reason not to pull the trigger.”
He looked at her.
His eyes were wet.
“Because I’m the only one who knows where the seventh victim is.”
The sixth bell rang at 3:00 AM.
Nora stood in the rain, her gun still raised, her hand still shaking, her heart still pounding.
Miles — the Bellman — stood before her, unarmed, unmoving, unafraid.
“The seventh victim,” she said.
“Is still alive.”
“Where?”
“In the place where your sister died.”
“The place where she died?”
“The old cabin. In the woods. Where we used to go as children.”
Nora’s blood went cold.
“You knew about that place?”
“I knew everything about you. I had to. To get close enough. To learn enough. To understand.”
“Understand what?”
He looked at the grave.
At the headstone.
At the name.
“Understand why you never came back.”
The drive to the old cabin took forty-five minutes.
Nora drove.
Miles sat in the passenger seat.
His hands were cuffed.
His face was still.
His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
“The seventh victim,” Nora said. “Who is she?”
“The first victim’s sister.”
“Why?”
“Because she needs to understand. The way you needed to understand. The way we all need to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That loss doesn’t end. That grief doesn’t fade. That the people we love never truly leave us.”
The cabin appeared out of the darkness like a memory.
It was small, dilapidated, half-hidden by overgrown trees. The windows were dark, the door was closed, the porch was sagging.
But there was light inside.
A candle.
Burning in the window.
“She’s in there,” Miles said.
“Alive?”
“For now.”
Nora got out of the car.
She drew her gun.
She walked to the door.
She pushed it open.
The cabin was empty.
The candle flickered on the windowsill.
The floor was bare.
The walls were bare.
The air was cold.
But there was a photograph.
On the table.
A photograph of Lena.
Her sister.
Smiling.
Alive.
And on the back, in handwriting she didn’t recognize:
The seventh victim is you.