Page 94 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
“Open it,” Caldwell says. “And let a drop of blood fall onto the face of the clock.”
“At least the instructions are simple,” I mutter.
I squeeze his finger, and the drop of blood lands in the middle of the watch.
Nothing happens. The blood rests on the glass that covers the moving hands of the watch. Margaux hovers over my shoulder, holding her breath.
Slowly, the blood dissolves as if it were never there. I glance at Caldwell, praying it isn’t some sort of trap.
“Just wait.” He nods lifelessly.
So, I wait. I’m unsure what to expect, and Caldwell tells me nothing. He stares intently at the painting on Margaux’s wall. It’s a fruit bowl of ripe apples and pomegranates—surprisingly generic and uninteresting.
Finally, something in the room shifts. It’s subtle at first, a change I can’t put my finger on… until words fill the room.
“Benjamin!” It’s a woman’s voice, a frightened, shaking sound. The voice doesn’t appear to come from the watch. It surrounds us with magic so strong I feel like I’m choking. My mother may liken it to the voice of God.
The voice says, “I don’t have long, so please, listen. I need you to finish what I started. You must go to Strode. I failed you. I’m sorry. The cycle will continue if we do not?—”
The voice cuts off as abruptly as a phone line hungwithout warning. There’s rifling, shuffling, a scream… and then nothing.
The wind whistles outside. Margaux gasps. Caldwell meets my eyes again, and I see his pain. Without asking, I know who the voice belongs to.
“That was your mother,” I say, venturing a guess.
“Yes.” His voice is tight. “It was all she left when she died. I found it in her study, hidden between the pages of a book.”
They’re the last words from his mother, and she didn’t have a chance to say she loved him.
I break my gaze from his, dangerously close to feeling sorry for the killer.
“I don’t understand,” Margaux says. “How does this prove your innocence?”
“It proves why I’m here,” he says. “When I told you a vision brought me to Strode, that was a lie.”
“Of course, it was.” I bark out a laugh.
“My mother’s voice in this watch is what led me there,” he says, “and while I don’t have much information… I believe it’s connected to the murders. This proves I’m not the murderer.”
“All it proves is that your mother wanted you to finish what she started,” I say, avoiding his gaze. “How do we know she wasn’t the one who started the killing? How are we supposed to trust you?”
“Because you trusted me before,” he says. Desperation clings to his words.
“I did for a spell,” I say, “and I regret it.”
“You don’t mean that,” he says.
But I do. I hoped for proof, but this watch doesn’t offer that—not enough for me to feel comfortable cutting him free. I already made the mistake of trusting him once, and I can’t let myselfbe tricked again.
“Tell me about your mother.” Margaux takes a seat at the dining table. “Why did she want you to go to Strode, and what are you finishing for her?”
“She didn’t tell me what I was supposed to finish,” he says. “It was my vision that made me realize it was connected to the murders. I still don’t know exactly what it is. She was a professor as well. Your father knew her.”
“And her name?”
“Professor Luna,” he says. “I carry my father’s surname, but she kept hers. The two were never married.”
“I’ve met your mother, and I know of Caldwell,” Margaux says. “He’s the demon, yes?”
