Chapter 13 of 18·6 min read·Later that same morning
The Ribbon on His Wrist
The police station smelled of wet wool, burnt coffee, and the sharp dust of old radiators. Constable Vale led us into a room with no windows and placed the photographer’s camera on the table between us.
Perrin sat beside me. He had not taken his coat off. Snowmelt darkened the shoulders, and one of his hands remained closed around the brass ferry token I had given him at Hart’s Landing, as if he needed something solid to keep hold of.
Constable Vale connected the camera to a monitor. “We’ve made copies of the files. The original device stays in evidence.”
“I want to see the bridge photographs again,” I said.
“You’ve already seen them.”
“I saw them in a railway office while I was frightened and alone. I want to see them now.”
Her expression did not soften, but she nodded. “Fair enough.”
The first image appeared: the bridge under rain, its lamps broken into pale streaks. The next showed Auden walking away from the western bank. His coat hung open. His head was lowered against the storm.
Behind him, the other man stood at the railing.
This time I did not look at Auden first. I looked at the figure’s wrist.
The mourning ribbon was narrow and dark, with a silver edge that caught the camera’s flash. The man wore it over his coat cuff, not tied around his arm as the mourners had worn theirs. One end had been folded under and pinned. The silver stitching made a small, bright diagonal across his wrist.
“Enlarge that,” I said.
Vale did. The image broke into squares, then steadied. The ribbon became a row of silver threads. Beneath it, the man’s hand gripped the railing.
Perrin leaned forward. “There’s a mark on his knuckle.”
“A scar?”
“No. A ring.”
The next photograph showed the man closer. His face remained turned away, but his hand had fallen at his side. A plain black ring circled his smallest finger.
I knew that ring.
Not because I had seen it often. Because I had seen it once, in a photograph Sella had given Perrin: Auden and his three colleagues standing outside the tram depot in summer, squinting into the sun. Ivo had been smiling. Sella had looked as though she wanted to leave. Niall Vey had stood half behind Auden, one hand tucked into his pocket.
A black ring showed at the edge of his smallest finger.
“Niall,” I said.
Next
Tamsin and Perrin will search the photographer’s evidence for proof of who recruited him and why Auden’s failing memory was being documented.
“No.” The word came out too quickly. “But I think so.”
Constable Vale studied the enlarged image. “We’ll ask him.”
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
For several minutes, none of us spoke. The monitor continued to show the man on the bridge, frozen in the rain, his hand lifted as if he meant to call Auden back or warn him away.
Auden had been afraid of him. The market keeper had seen it in the way he looked over his shoulder. I had made that fear into a warning because I wanted there to be a villain waiting in the dark. Villains were easier than frightened men. Easier than accidents. Easier than the thought of Auden walking toward me with his memories coming loose, followed by someone who might have been trying to help.
The door opened.
Niall came in with a constable behind him.
He looked at the monitor before he looked at us. Whatever color he had possessed drained from his face.
“You found him,” he said.
I stood. “We found you.”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “Yes.”
Perrin rose more slowly. “Sit down, Niall.”
Niall sat opposite us. He kept both hands visible on the table. There was no ring on either smallest finger.
I pointed at the screen. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
The answer did not carry an excuse with it. That made it worse.
“Why did you lie?” I asked.
“I told you why.”
“You said you were ashamed. You said you were afraid I’d blame myself.”
“I was.”
“That isn’t all of it.”
Niall looked at the photograph again. “No.”
Constable Vale remained by the door. “Tell us what happened after Auden left the depot.”
Niall rubbed his thumb against the table’s edge. “Ivo followed him first. I followed Ivo.”
“Why?” Perrin asked.
“Because Ivo had taken Auden’s keys.”
The room seemed to contract around us.
Niall continued before I could speak. “Auden had been asking the same questions all evening. Where he lived. Which road led to Rook Street. Whether the river was north or south. Ivo told him you were waiting and that he knew a shortcut.”
“You knew he was confused.”
“Yes.”
“And you let Ivo lead him out?”
Niall flinched. “I tried to stop him. Ivo told me to stay out of it. Then Auden saw me.”
The photograph showed the moment: Auden turned beneath the tollhouse sign, rain whitening the darkness around him.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He asked if I knew where Rook Street was.” Niall swallowed. “I said yes. I told him to come back to the depot first. He didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?”
“Because Ivo had already told him I was the one who had moved his coat. Because Auden couldn’t remember which of us he trusted. Because I was wearing this.”
He touched his bare wrist.
“The ribbon?” Perrin said.
Niall nodded. “I thought if he saw it, he’d know I’d been at the funeral. That I was one of his people.”
“One of his people,” I repeated. “You followed him across the bridge wearing a mourning ribbon, and you expected that to comfort him?”
“I didn’t expect anything.” His voice cracked. “I was trying to keep him from going farther.”
“Then why did you leave?”
Niall closed his eyes.
“Ivo caught up with us near the old bridge. He said if I went after Auden, he’d tell everyone what had happened at the depot.”
“What happened?” Vale asked.
Niall opened his eyes. “Ivo had shown Auden the road map. He’d torn off the section marked Rook Street.”
Perrin’s chair scraped backward. “He did what?”
“He said Auden would never find you without him. He thought it was funny.” Niall’s face twisted. “Auden kept asking for the map. Ivo told him he’d misplaced it. When Auden walked toward the bridge, I followed. I wanted to take him back, but I couldn’t make myself cross the railing after him.”
“You could have called someone,” I said.
“I know.”
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
The simplicity of it robbed me of the anger I had prepared. There was no clever defense to tear apart. Only a man sitting with the shape of his cowardice.
“Did you hurt him?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you cause the accident?”
“No.” His answer came hard enough to sound like pain. “I left him on the western side of the bridge. I saw him reach the tollhouse. Then I went back.”
The shadow at my feet had been nearly invisible beneath the table. Now it stretched toward Niall.
Niall noticed. His breath caught, but he did not move away.
The grey shape touched the leg of his chair and stopped. It did not recoil. It did not gather itself to strike. After a moment, it withdrew beneath me again.
I had wanted Auden to know the difference between danger and regret. Perhaps this was all he had left to give me: not a memory, not a sign, but a refusal to mistake one for the other.
Vale turned off the monitor. “Niall, you’ll give a formal statement. We’ll also need the name of anyone else who knew about the map, the ribbon, or Auden’s condition.”
Niall looked at me. “Ivo wasn’t the only person who knew he was losing his memory.”
Perrin went still. “Who else?”
Niall’s mouth tightened. “The photographer.”
The shadow shifted beneath the table.
Niall continued, “He was at the depot before Auden left. He asked questions about you. About the accident. About whether Auden had ever come to your flat.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.
“Because by the time I understood what he wanted, Auden was gone. And because I had already decided one silence would be easier than another.”
Vale moved toward him. “You’ll tell us everything.”
Niall nodded.
On the table, the camera’s dark screen reflected my face beside the faint grey shape of my shadow. The man on the bridge had been identified. He had not been the threat I feared, but he had still failed Auden when failure mattered most.
The photographer remained somewhere beyond the station walls. He had watched Auden forget the road, watched the shadow weaken, and recorded every step as if grief were an experiment.
I stood and gathered my coat.
Perrin looked at me. “Where are you going?”
“To see what else the photographer knew.”
“You’re not going alone.”
For once, I did not argue.
The shadow followed us out of the room, thin and wavering, carrying no memory of Niall’s face—only the old, enduring instinct to keep me from walking into the dark by myself.