The Timepiece Killer

By Christian Emecheta

Christian Emecheta is this month’s winner of $615.00 for more than just a murder mystery.

Bio: Christian Emecheta is a Nigerian writer and computer scientist. His fiction and poetry have been featured in prestigious publications, including Arts Lounge Magazine and The Decolonial Passage. Christian finds inspiration through reading, film, and the boundless landscapes of his imagination

Without further ado, “The Timepiece Killer” by Christian Emecheta.

I was living on the streets of Portland when Detective Gareth Foster found me – disheveled, angry at life, half-starved – scavenging through dumpsters behind the fish processing plants near the harbor, sleeping wherever I could find shelter from the bitter Maine cold.

I don’t know what brought him to that desolate wharf on that frigid February night, but it was my salvation. Something in my eyes must have spoken to him, because instead of running me in for vagrancy, he bought me coffee at an all-night diner and listened to my story.

“You’re not just another junkie, are you?” he said, studying me across the chipped Formica table. “You’ve got that look. You’ve seen things.”

I wrapped my dirty palms around the warm mug. “I’ve seen plenty. None of them good.”

Foster wasn’t what you’d call a bleeding heart. Twenty-three years on Portland PD’s homicide division had calcified something in him. But he had this peculiar sense of morals that transcended the badge. He slid a card across the table.

“I might have use for someone like you,” he said. “Someone unexpected.”

That was the beginning of our unusual arrangement. He set me up in a cramped efficiency apartment above a Portuguese bakery in the Old Port. The rent wasn’t much, but it was warm. My first real shelter in eighteen months.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he warned me. “This isn’t charity. You’re going to work for this.”

I may have been destitute, but I wasn’t timid. Foster needed eyes in places his badge couldn’t go. The waterfront bars. The homeless encampments under the Casco Bay Bridge. The neglected corners of the city where people like me could traverse without anyone noticing or caring.

I never had much of a chance at a conventional life. My father left when I was four—just walked out one New Year’s Eve and never returned. My mother spiraled after that, bringing home an endless parade of men who looked at me with either indifference or something worse. By sixteen, I was on my own, drifting through the underbelly of New England’s coastal towns, developing the particular invisibility that comes with being someone no one wants to see.

But I was determined that no one would exploit me. I fought anyone who tried—earned a scar across my right cheekbone and a permanently crooked nose for my troubles. When Foster first approached me in that alley, I nearly slashed him with the box cutter I kept in my boot. That’s probably why he called me “Alecto”—after some ancient Greek fury, he told me later. A name suitable for someone fierce despite their circumstances.

Now I can barely remember the person I was before becoming his informant. His sidekick.

As it turned out, Foster had been drowning his frustrations in whiskey that night we met. The Watchmaker case was eating him alive—four victims over three years, each found with their wrists slashed and a vintage pocket watch placed in their palm, meticulously set to the estimated time of death. The department had nothing but dead ends, and another girl had just been found near Back Cove.

“Twenty-two years old,” he told me later, staring out my apartment window at the gray harbor. “Name was Elizabeth Soames. Graphic designer. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s everything.”

Foster wasn’t a drinking man generally. He lived methodically, almost obsessively orderly. Monday through Friday, he followed the same routines. We developed a system—I’d leave notes in a hollow brick in the alley behind the bakery, and twice a week he’d come to my apartment, ostensibly as the building’s maintenance man. He’d bring groceries sometimes, hidden tools of my new trade other times—prepaid phones, a camera, voice recorder disguised as a lighter.

“You seen this guy around?” he’d ask, showing me photos of persons of interest. “Anyone hanging around the shelter asking too many questions? Anyone watching the college bars too closely?”

I’d make dinner, and we’d sit at my small table while I relayed whatever scraps I’d gathered. Foster never wrote anything down during these meetings. His memory was encyclopedic, cataloging every detail I provided like evidence in an invisible file.

“You’re making a difference,” he told me once, during a blizzard that had paralyzed the city. The snow pressed against my windows, muffling the world outside. “Most of my informants just want money or reduced charges. You actually give a damn.”

The truth was, I’d found purpose. After years of merely surviving, I was living for something bigger than myself. I started paying attention to patterns on the street—who was new, who seemed like trouble, who didn’t belong. I cleaned myself up, got better clothes from the donation center, learned to blend in different environments. I became a chameleon with a mission.

Six months into our arrangement, Foster started having long meetings with someone from the state police. I could tell from the tension in his shoulders and the distracted look in his eyes that something had shifted in the case.

“They’re bringing in some profiler from Quantico,” he said one evening, his food going cold on the plate. “Some hotshot who thinks the watches had something in common with the victims.”

I heard the edge in his voice. “You think he might be right?”

“The watches are all antiques. Pre-1950. In immaculate condition. That’s not just symbolism—it’s personal. These aren’t random victims by chance. He’s choosing them for something specific.”

That night, after Foster left, I spread all the newspaper clippings about the case across my floor. Four young women, all brown-haired, all petite, all found in public parks within a thirty-mile radius of Portland. All with vintage watches. All in positions that looked almost... peaceful.

I started having nightmares—visions of timepieces with bloody hands sweeping toward midnight, of faces I’d seen around town transformed into something predatory. I began to see potential suspects everywhere. The taxi driver with the too-intense stare. The antiquarian who ran the clock repair shop on Exchange Street. The middle-aged man who fed pigeons in Deering Oaks Park every Tuesday at precisely 10 AM.

“You’re getting too close to this,” Foster warned me when I shared my growing list of suspicions. “Remember your job is to observe, not investigate.”

But I couldn’t help myself. I started following people, taking photographs, noting schedules. I’d slip into bars near the last victim’s workplace, hoping to overhear something useful. I began visiting antique shops and pawnbrokers, asking casual questions about vintage timepieces.

“You looking for anything specific?” asked the owner of a dusty shop in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I’d expanded my search across state lines, following a hunch about where the watches might have originated.

“Just browsing,” I replied, examining a delicate ladies’ pocket watch with mother-of-pearl inlay. “I’ve always been fascinated by how they keep working after so many years. Like little heartbeats that outlive their owners.”

The man studied me with sudden interest. “That’s an unusual perspective. Most collectors care about the craftsmanship, the rarity.”

“What about you?” I asked. “What makes a watch valuable in your eyes?”

“History,” he said simply. “Knowing whose pocket it warmed, whose life it measured.” He reached beneath the counter and brought out a velvet tray. “These just came in from an estate sale in Kennebunkport. The owner had quite the collection.”

Five pocket watches lay on the tray. My curiosity piqued on seeing the watches. They were nearly identical to the ones from the newspaper photos—ornate, gold-cased, antique.

“Who owned these?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“A retired watchmaker. Died last month. His son’s liquidating the collection.” He handed me a business card. “If you’re interested, I could introduce you. He’s got dozens more.”

The card read: “Jeffery Alderman, Horologist—Restorations & Appraisals.”

That night, I called Foster from a pay phone near the harbor. The February wind cut through my jacket as I watched my breath cloud in the darkness.

“I need to see you,” I said when he answered. “It’s important.”

“Not tonight,” he replied, his voice strange. “I’ve got company.”

I heard a woman’s laughter in the background. Something like jealousy coiled inside me.

“It’s about the watches,” I insisted.

A long pause. “Tomorrow. The usual time.”

But Foster didn’t show the next day. Or the day after. I left messages at our drop point, called with the burner phone he’d given me for emergencies. Nothing.

By the third day, worry had replaced my initial feeling of jealousy. This wasn’t like him. I took a risk and walked past the police station, scanning the parking lot for his distinctive blue Jeep Cherokee. It wasn’t there.

That evening, I broke our initial agreement by going to his apartment—a modest second-floor unit in a triple-decker near Willard Beach in South Portland. I’d never been there before, but he’d once pointed it out during a drive. “If anything ever happens to me,” he’d said, “that’s where you’ll find a package with your name on it.”

At the time, I’d thought he was being dramatic.

I watched the building from across the street for an hour, studying the windows, the comings and goings of neighbors. No lights were on in his unit. Finally, I crossed over and checked the names on the mailboxes. G. FOSTER, 2B.

The front door was unlocked—unusual for this neighborhood. I climbed the stairs silently, every sense alert for danger. At his door, I paused, listening. Nothing. I knocked softly.

No response.

I tried the handle. It turned.

The apartment was immaculate—almost obsessively tidy. Nothing out of place. No dishes in the sink, no mail scattered on counters. It looked unlived in, except for a coffee mug on the kitchen table, a thin film formed on its surface.

“Foster?” I called softly, moving deeper into the apartment.

The bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it open.

The bed was made with immense care and attention to details. On the pillow lay a single gold pocket watch.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I approached slowly, as if the watch might suddenly animate and run away. With trembling fingers, I picked it up. The metal was cold, dense. When I pressed the crown, the cover sprang open. The hands were stopped at 3:27.

Something was engraved inside the cover: ‘For G.F. — Time reveals all truths.’

A sound at the apartment door made me freeze. Keys jangling, then the door opening.

“Foster?” I called, my hope surging.

Footsteps approached the bedroom. But they weren’t Foster’s familiar, measured steps. These were lighter, almost inaudible.

A woman appeared in the doorway, probably in her early forties, elegant, with auburn hair rolled into a ball. She wore a plain coat and leather gloves. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

“Who are you?” she demanded, her hand slipping into her coat pocket.

I clutched the watch. “I’m looking for Detective Foster. I’m... a friend.”

“He has no friends,” she said coldly. “Only colleagues and informants. Which are you?”

Before I could answer, she withdrew her hand from her pocket. I tensed, expecting a weapon, but she was holding a credentials wallet. She flipped it open to reveal a badge.

“Special Agent Katherine James, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now, I’ll ask again. Who are you, and why are you holding exhibit from an active investigation?”

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “Exhibit? I—this was just sitting here. On his pillow.”

Her expression went from suspicion to alarm. “You’re saying you found this here? Just now?”

I nodded, my mouth dry.

She moved toward me, hand extended. “Give it to me, carefully. By the edges.”

I passed her the watch, suddenly desperate to get rid of it.

She examined it without touching the case, then looked sharply at me. “When was the last time you saw Detective Foster?”

“Three days ago. He was supposed to meet me, but never showed.”

“And your name is?”

I hesitated. “He calls me Alecto.”

Recognition flashed in her eyes. “You’re the informant from the waterfront.” It wasn’t a question.

“Where is he?” I asked.

She pocketed the watch in an exhibit bag. “That’s what I’m trying to determine. Detective Foster missed a task force meeting two days ago. His sergeant said he called in sick, but he’s not answering his phone or emails.”

“And now there’s a watch on his pillow,” I said, the situation getting me more confused. “Like the victims.”

“Similar, but not the same,” she corrected. “The Watchmaker leaves timepieces with the deceased. This...” She gestured around the empty apartment. “This is new behavior.”

“Or a different perpetrator,” I suggested.

Her gaze sharpened. “What do you know about this case?”

“Only what Foster told me. And what I’ve figured out myself.”

“Which is?”

I took a deep breath. “The watches aren’t just signatures. They’re personal to the killer. I found a connection—a watchmaker’s collection being sold off after his death. His son is liquidating it through antique dealers across New England.”

Agent James’ posture changed subtly. “You’ve been investigating?”

“Observing,” I corrected, echoing Foster’s instructions. “That’s my job.”

She studied me for a long moment. “Did Detective Foster ever mention Jeffery Alderman to you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because Garrett Foster and Jeffery Alderman were both in a foster home in Augusta in the late 1980s. Along with two other boys.” She paused. “All four were suspected victims of abuse by their foster father, a clockmaker who also collected antique timepieces.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed as the pieces realigned in my mind. “Foster’s investigating his own past.”

“We believe so.” She sat beside me, her voice softening slightly. “The question is: is he pursuing a former foster brother who’s become a killer, or has he become something else entirely?”

“He’s not a murderer,” I said immediately. “I know him.”

“Do you?” she challenged. “Because his sergeant says he requested personal leave yesterday and left a letter of resignation on his desk.”

My certainty wavered. All those meetings, all those conversations—had I been helping him solve a case, or helping him perfect his methodology?

“The women,” I said. “The victims. What connects them?”

Agent James was silent for a moment, weighing how much to share. “They all worked with troubled youth in some capacity. Social workers, counselors, a juvenile probation officer.”

“Like the people who failed to protect Foster and the others,” I realized.

“Precisely.”

I stood up, needing to move. “But why show me this? Why leave the watch for me to find?”

“For G.F.,” she recited the inscription. “Time reveals all truths. Perhaps he’s finally ready for the truth to come out.” She stood as well. “The question is: what do you intend to do with this information?”

I moved to the window, looking out at the darkening skyline across the bay. Somewhere out there was the answer—and possibly Foster himself.

“Help me find him,” I said, turning back to her. “Before anyone else dies. Before he does something he can’t take back.”

“Why would I trust you? I don’t even know your real name.”

I met her gaze steadily. “Because neither does he. And I’m the only one who knows where he might go next.”

She regarded me with professional assessment. “Where?”

“There’s an abandoned lighthouse keeper’s cottage on the point beyond Two Lights State Park. Foster mentioned it once—said it was where he first realized what had happened to him and the others. Where he found the courage to speak out, even though no one believed him.”

Agent James reached into her coat and withdrew a phone. “I should call this in. Get a tactical team out there.”

“And if he sees them coming? If he’s armed and desperate?” I shook my head. “Let me go first. He trusts me.”

“If you’re wrong about him—if he’s responsible for those women’s deaths—you could be walking into extreme danger.”

I almost laughed. “Danger and I are accustomed, Agent James. Besides,” I gestured around the pristine apartment, “if Foster wanted me dead, he’s had plenty of opportunities.”

She considered this, then reached a decision. “I’ll give you two hours. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m bringing in everyone.”

As I turned to leave, she caught my arm. “One more thing. The watch found with the latest victim—Elizabeth Soames. It had an inscription too.”

I waited.

“Time can heal or time can kill. The choice was yours.”

“Be careful,” she added. “Whichever version of Garrett Foster you find out there, just remember he’s not the man you thought you knew.”

I nodded and slipped out of the apartment, already planning my approach to the lighthouse cottage. Outside, the winter night had fully descended, wrapping Portland in darkness broken only by scattered lights. Above, the stars were sharp against the black sky.

Whatever truth awaited me at that desolate point, I knew one thing for certain: after tonight, nothing would ever be the same. The life I’d built from the scraps Foster had offered me—the purpose I’d found in his mission—all of it balanced on the knife-edge of whatever revelation waited at the end of this dark road.

I pulled my coat tighter and headed toward the water.

The drive to Cape Elizabeth took forty minutes, the last stretch along winding coastal roads where the headlights of my borrowed car—a beat-up Honda I’d convinced my neighbor to lend me—carved tunnels through dense fog rolling in from the Atlantic. The closer I got to my destination, the thicker the fog became, as if nature itself were conspiring to obscure whatever truths waited ahead.

I parked half a mile from where I remembered the cottage to be, cutting the engine and lights. Silence enveloped me—that peculiar coastal quiet broken only by the distant, rhythmic moan of foghorns and the soft percussion of waves against rock. The air that filled my lungs when I stepped outside was heavy with salt and impending rain.

No flashlight—too obvious. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and began picking my way along the narrow path that hugged the coastline. Years on the streets had taught me how to move unseen, how to place each foot deliberately to minimize sound. The path was treacherous—slick with sea spray and February ice—but familiar in its danger. I’d navigated worse.

The lighthouse itself was still operational, its beam sweeping across the water in steady rotation, briefly illuminating sections of the rocky shore before plunging them back into darkness. But the keeper’s cottage, Foster had told me, had been abandoned in the 1980s when the light was automated. It stood a quarter mile beyond the main lighthouse, accessible only by this neglected path or by boat.

“Nobody goes there anymore,” he’d said when he mentioned it months ago, his eyes distant with memory. “Kids used to break in on dares, but after the stairs collapsed and some teenager broke his leg, they put up better barriers. But I know another way in. Always have.”

The cottage materialized out of the mist—a squat, stone structure huddled against the cliff face as if for protection. No lights visible from outside. No car parked nearby. But Foster was methodical; he wouldn’t leave obvious signs.

I circled the building once, noting the boarded windows, the heavy chain and padlock on the front door. Nothing disturbed but nothing welcoming either. Then I spotted it—a cellar door around the back, rusted hinges, weathered wood. One of the boards had been removed and carefully replaced, detectable only because I was looking for exactly this kind of detail.

My heart hammered as I knelt and worked the board free, the wet wood rough against my fingers. The space revealed was barely wide enough for an adult to slip through. I hesitated, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I would be crawling into that darkness. If I was wrong about Foster...

But I wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t be.

I squeezed through the gap and found myself in a dank cellar, the air thick with the scent of decay. My feet touched concrete, and I crouched, listening. Nothing. I withdrew a small penlight from my pocket—minimal risk now that I was inside—and swept its beam across the space.

The cellar was mostly empty except for rotting shelves and a few abandoned canning jars. A narrow staircase led upward, several steps missing or broken. I picked my way carefully to the top and found a door, slightly ajar. A faint glow seeped around its edges.

Candlelight.

I extinguished my penlight and listened again. A soft, rhythmic sound reached my ears. Ticking.

Many timepieces, all ticking slightly out of sync.

I eased the door open.

The cottage’s main room was transformed. Dozens of candles created islands of warm light. And everywhere—on the mantelpiece, on makeshift shelves, arranged in concentric circles on the floor—were watches. Pocket watches, wristwatches, carriage clocks. All antique, all seemingly in working order, their collective ticking creating an eerie chorus that filled the space.

In the center of this mechanical congregation sat Foster, cross-legged on the floor. His service weapon lay disassembled before him, the pieces arranged with the same precision as the timepieces surrounding him. He didn’t look up when I entered, though he must have heard me.

“You’re early,” he said finally. “I expected Agent James to take longer to find you.”

I remained in the doorway, assessing escape routes, measuring distances. “You knew she would come to your apartment?”

“I left her enough breadcrumbs.” His fingers traced the edge of the disassembled gun. “I needed time to finish this.”

“Finish what, exactly?” I strode further into the room, careful not to step on any of the watches. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re either planning to join the victims or create another one.”

That got his attention. He looked up, his eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Is that what you think of me, Alecto? That I’m a killer?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. The FBI agent says you resigned. That you’re connected to Charles Alderman. That all of this—” I gestured to the watches, “—has something to do with your time in foster care.”

“She told you that much?” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “Then she must be desperate.”

“She thinks you might be involved in the killings.”

“And what do you think?”

I studied him—the man who had pulled me from the gutter, given me purpose, trusted me when no one else would. “I think you’ve been hunting the Watchmaker for reasons more personal than mere justice.”

Foster nodded slowly. “Charles wasn’t the only one who survived what happened to us in that house. There were four of us. Charles. Me. Anthony. And Gabriel.” He picked up a pocket watch from beside him. “Gabriel was the youngest. The one our foster father favored most. The one who suffered the most.”

“What happened to him?”

“Officially? He committed suicide at seventeen. Jumped from the Carlton Bridge in Bath. Body never recovered.” Foster opened a watch, studied its face. “But bodies in the Kennebec River don’t just disappear. They wash up. Eventually.”

I moved closer, drawn by the raw pain in his voice. “You think he’s still alive. That he’s the Watchmaker.”

“I know he is.” Foster closed the watch with a snap. “Because I helped him fake his death.”

I sank to my knees across from him, careful to maintain distance. “Why?”

“Because he was going to kill our foster father. Had it all planned out. And part of me wanted him to do it—wanted that monster dead. But I couldn’t let Gabriel destroy his life that way.” Foster’s voice reflected his anger. “So I convinced him to disappear instead. Gave him money, ID, everything he needed to start over somewhere else.”

“And now he’s back, killing women who work with troubled youth. Like the people who failed to protect you.”

Foster nodded, his expression haunting. “I didn’t make the connection at first. When the first victim appeared with the watch, it felt... familiar, but I couldn’t place why. By the third, I knew. The watches were from our foster father’s collection—the same ones he used to—” He broke off. “Gabriel must have taken them when he disappeared.”

“Does Charles know? Is he involved?”

“Charles cut all ties after we aged out of the system. Changed his name, moved to New Hampshire. Started a family.” Foster rubbed his face. “I tracked him down after the second murder. He didn’t even recognize me at first. He’s not involved, but he has the rest of the collection. Father left everything to him, ironically.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Bring in the FBI sooner?”

“And tell them what? That I helped a traumatized teenager fake his death twenty years ago? That I’ve been withholding crucial information in a serial murder investigation?” He shook his head. “My career would be over. And it wouldn’t stop Gabriel.”

“So what’s your plan now?” I gestured to the disassembled gun. “Take him out yourself?”

“No.” Foster’s voice was quiet but firm. “I’m going to offer him a trade. Me for whoever he’s planning to take next.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded paper. “I figured out the pattern. The women aren’t random—they’re all connected to cases where children reported abuse and weren’t believed. Gabriel’s been researching them, targeting them specifically.”

“He blames them for not saving others like you.”

“In his mind, they’re as guilty as the abusers.” Foster handed me the paper. “The next likely victim is Patricia Dunham. Retired social worker who supervised our case. She lives in Rockport now.”

I unfolded the paper—a printed map with an address circled. “You think he’s going after her next?”

“I’m certain of it. And I think he expects me to try to stop him. That’s what the watch on my pillow meant—he’s telling me it’s time to finish what we started.”

“So you’re what—bait? You think he’ll take you instead of her?”

“I think he’s been waiting for me to catch up all along. This was never just about vengeance for him.” Foster gestured to the watches surrounding us. “This is a message. For me.”

“And if you’re wrong? If he kills you both?”

“That’s why I left the trail for Agent Winters. She’s smart. She’ll figure it out if I fail.” He began reassembling his gun effortlessly. “But I need time to try it my way first.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I realized. “You knew I’d find the watch. That I’d come looking for you.”

“I hoped you would.” For the first time, his composure cracked, revealing the guilt he’d been carrying. “I couldn’t tell you directly—couldn’t put that on you. But I knew you’d understand what others wouldn’t.”

“Because we’re alike,” I said softly. “Both invisible until someone finally sees us.”

He nodded. “I need you to leave now. Take the map, get somewhere safe, and call Agent Winters. Tell her everything I’ve told you, but give me until midnight. That’s when Gabriel will move on Patricia Dunham. I need to be there first.”

“And if I refuse? If I don’t want to leave you to face this alone?”

Foster finished assembling his weapon and tucked it into his holster. “Then you’d be making the same mistake I made twenty years ago, trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.”

“Is that what you think this is?” I stood up, anger suddenly flaring. “You pulled me out of the gutter, gave me a purpose, made me feel like I was worth something—and now you expect me to just walk away while you sacrifice yourself?”

“I expect you to understand that some debts can only be paid one way.”

He rose as well, his expression resolute. “Gabriel became what he is partly because of my choices. I thought I was saving him, but I just delayed the inevitable. Now other people have paid the price.”

“And your death will fix that?”

“Maybe not. But it might end it.” He checked his watch—an ordinary modern timepiece, not one of the antiques. “It’s 10:30. You have time to get clear and make the call.”

I stared at him, this complicated man who had saved me and was now asking me to let him go. Everything in me rebelled against the idea.

“There’s something you should know,” I said finally. “Something I’ve never told you.”

He waited, his eyes questioning.

“My real name. It’s not important what it was before—I’ve been Alecto so long that’s who I am now. But before you found me in that alley, I was investigating the first Watchmaker murder on my own.”

His expression shifted to confusion. “What? Why?”

“Because the victim—Diane Larson—was the one person who believed me when I reported my mother’s boyfriend for abuse when I was fourteen. The system failed, he stayed, and eventually I ran. But Diane tried.” I met his gaze steadily. “I’ve been hunting the killer as long as you have, just without a badge.”

Foster stared at me, reassessing everything he thought he knew. “That’s why you were so eager to help. Why you took to it so naturally.”

“We’re more alike than you know,” I said. “And that’s why I can’t let you do this alone.”

“Alecto—”

“I’m not asking permission,” I cut him off. “Gabriel doesn’t know me. I can get close in ways you can’t. We have a better chance together.”

The look he gave me was complicated—concern, respect, and something like pride. “It’s not your fight.”

“It became my fight the moment you found me in that alley.” I picked up one of the pocket watches, feeling its weight. “Besides, you said it yourself—we’re the invisible ones. The ones no one missed. Maybe that’s our power.”

Foster was silent for a long moment, weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he gave a small nod. “If we do this, we do it my way. You stay back, provide eyes only unless absolutely necessary.”

“Agreed.”

“And if anything goes wrong—if it looks like neither of us is walking away—you get out and you call Agent Winters. Immediately. Promise me.”

I slipped the watch into my pocket. “I promise.”

“We need to move.” He began extinguishing the candles. “Gabriel will be watching Patricia’s house already, nursing a perfect plan. We need to approach carefully.”

As the cottage fell into darkness, except for one candle Foster kept lit to guide our way, I felt a strange calm settle over me. For years I’d drifted, surviving but not living. Foster had given me purpose as his eyes and ears, but this—this was something more. This was standing on the edge of whatever waited beyond the fog.

We moved toward the cellar door, the ticking of dozens of watches following us like a mechanical heartbeat.

“You know,” Foster said quietly as we slipped out into the night, “I never asked why you were in that alley that night. Why Portland, of all places.”

“I followed a lead about vintage watches being sold to pawnshops. It went nowhere.” I paused. “Until you found me.”

He absorbed this, the cosmic coincidence that had brought us together—or perhaps it was never coincidence at all.

“Maybe we were always heading toward this moment,” he said. “From the very beginning.”

The fog had thickened around us, transforming the path into a ghostly corridor. Ahead lay Rockport, Patricia Dunham, and the man who had set all of this in motion decades ago with hidden wounds and stolen timepieces.

Behind us, the lighthouse beam swept across the water, briefly illuminating our figures before darkness claimed us once more.

Together we moved into that darkness, two hunters pursuing a ghost who had learned to hurt the living. Whatever waited in Rockport—resolution or reckoning—we would face it as we had faced everything else since that night in the alley.

Invisible. Watchful. And no longer alone.

***

The drive to Rockport was tense, each mile bringing us closer to confrontation. Foster insisted we take his Jeep, hidden in a turnout a half-mile from the cottage. As he drove, he shared what he knew about Gabriel—mid-forties now, likely working with watches or clocks given the mechanical precision of the murders, possibly using a different name.

“The watches are the key,” Foster said, his eyes fixed on the foggy road. “He chooses them specifically for each victim.”

“What was inscribed on the others?” I asked. “Agent Winters only told me about Elizabeth Soames.”

“The first one—Diane Larson’s—said ‘Time waits for those who listen.‘ The second had ‘Your time was borrowed from the start.‘ The third, ‘Time is the fire in which we will burn.‘”

“Poetic,” I noted. “Personal.”

“Gabriel always loved books. Poetry especially.” Foster’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Our foster father would make him recite verses while—” He cut himself off. “He found escape in words when there was no physical escape possible.”