Seven Bell Pieces

The first time I left a wind chime at a crime scene was on a rainy night seven years ago.

No one knew that the seven gleaming copper bells had been painstakingly taken apart from the remains of an incident that had been covered up years ago. The police said it was the calling card of a serial killer, that I was killing according to a set pattern, and that they had found the trail I left behind.

Only I knew that the marks engraved on each bell corresponded to someone who had lied through their teeth back then. Together, they buried someone who should have survived in mud no one would remember.

Now the seven bells are almost all hanging in place. When the wind blows, they make a faint, tinkling sound, as if someone were counting down the days beside my ear. The police are still searching, still guessing, still drawing meaningless profiles based on the wind chimes at the crime scenes.

They will never guess that this wind chime was never meant for the dead.

It was for the one who has been waiting all this time for an answer.