The sister in the dark

Chapter 15

The second I'm out of his sight, I start to run. After a while, I lose all sense of where I am, I just know I need to get away. I need to go somewhere.

Soon I'm climbing. I don't know what I'm climbing, but I do know that I've climbed it before. I have to keep going up. Come on Evelyn, keep going. Don't give up now. My rough, scratched, sore hands reach up to grab loose tiles, and my aching arms pull me onto a flat surface.

Panting, I look around. There are chimney pots in every direction, and that must mean... I'm on the roof. Where else would I be? That burst of adrenaline must have made it simple to scale those 25 metres, especially after knowing about how the pole wouldn't help me.

I retrieve the clue from my pocket, unfold it, and re-read it.

"My life is a whirl. I've killed a girl. Now I've taken flight, like the doves at night."

But that doesn't give me any clue to where on the roof it is. It would take ages to search the whole place. Then I turn over the clue, and see there is printed text on the back.

Instead of studying the words, I look at the paper itself. By the looks of it, Rose ripped it out of a textbook, an architecture one. She had underlined several words.

'To create the correct stability of a roof, one must arch the sides of the building and be careful with the amount of chimney pots placed upon said roof. Too many, and the roof will collapse. More chimney pots should be placed around the outside than the centre.'

Rose, you genius! I think. I need to find the central cluster of chimneys, the ones furthest away from the edge.

After a tough yet careful scramble across the rooftop, I finally reach the centre. It is occupied by just a single pot, marked with years of coal dust and fire. But, all in all, it is an ordinary clay pot. Just like the others on the roof. Nothing exceptional about it.

Suddenly I am overwhelmed by sadness. I might never see Rose again, I could have risked my life for nothing. Twice.

The tears trickling down my face drip onto the chimney pot I am curled over. They start to wash away the many layers of coal dust, revealing a number scratched into the pottery.

I rub my eyes to check that this isn't my imagination, then when I realise it isn't, I lick my thumb and start rubbing.

Another number appears, so I sit back on my knees to examine what it says. 1683 is the first number, and 51 is the second.

1683 is probably the date it was made. But 51 means nothing to me.

I hurry over to the closest chimney pot, rub at the soot. This one says 1698 and 52.

I hurry back to the central chimney. Maybe adding up all the integers in the date will give me a chimney pot number.

Eighteen. Chimney pot 18 holds nothing, but I add up the date on that one as well. 1742.

Fourteen. I crawl four chimneys to my left, to number 14, and check it. It doesn't look like this one has been used at all.

Balancing on a brick inside the clay pot is my sister's favourite ring. My hand dives in to grab it and I slide it on my finger. Now I can get down.

When I reach the edge, I notice that the sun is setting. I have to get down soon. Soon meaning now.

Before I begin the descent, a small figure runs out across the lacrosse field, interrupting a match.

"She's dead!" I hear the person, whomever they are, scream. "It's happened again! Amelia Martell. I found her dead, near the Saxon Deities!"

I almost faint at this news. Because the killer, Rose or not, has struck again.