THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Seventh Victim
The photograph trembled in Nora’s hand.
Her sister’s face stared up at her — frozen in time, frozen in memory, frozen in grief. Lena had been nineteen in that photograph, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes bright with laughter, her smile wide and carefree. She had been alive. She had been happy. She had been loved.
And then she had been gone.
The words on the back of the photograph burned in Nora’s mind.
The seventh victim is you.
She turned.
Miles stood in the doorway, his hands still cuffed, his face still calm, his eyes still fixed on her.
“You’re the seventh victim,” he said.
“I’m not a victim.”
“Everyone is a victim. Of time. Of circumstance. Of choice.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“You chose not to answer the phone.”
Nora’s grip tightened on the photograph.
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
She walked toward him.
The candle flickered.
The shadows danced.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I loved her.”
“Loved who?”
“Lena.”
Nora stopped.
Her blood went cold.
“You loved my sister?”
“I loved your sister. I was there that night. I was the one who took her to the cabin. I was the one who made her happy. I was the one who made her laugh.”
“And you were the one who killed her?”
He was silent for a long moment.
The rain dripped through the roof.
The wind howled through the trees.
“No,” he said. “I was the one who found her.”
Nora stared at him.
“Found her?”
“She was already dead when I got there. The killer was gone. The cabin was empty. The door was open.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid they would think I did it. Afraid they would blame me. Afraid they would take me away from you.”
“From me?”
“You were the only family I had left. After Lena died, you were all I had.”
“You could have told me.”
“I tried. A dozen times. A hundred times. But you were always busy. Always working. Always running.”
“Running from what?”
He looked at the photograph.
At Lena’s face.
At her smile.
“From her.”
The seventh bell rang at 4:00 AM.
Nora stood in the cabin, the photograph in her hand, her partner’s confession echoing in her ears.
She had spent fifteen years running from her sister’s death.
She had spent fifteen years burying the guilt.
She had spent fifteen years pretending she had done everything she could.
She had been wrong.
“The seventh victim is you,” Miles had said.
She looked at him.
“How do I stop it?”
“You don’t. You survive it.”
“And the Bellman?”
He smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“The Bellman was never real. The Bellman was always you.”