Turning Point 25
The timer read 4:47.
I held the Leica against my chest, the metal body cold through my shirt. Croft stood between me and Holt, his bare face a roadmap of old scars and newer cruelties. The fluorescent light carved shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and his eyes—pale, almost colorless—watched me with the patience of a man who had already won.
“You can’t stop it,” he said. “That timer is welded to the frame. Cut the wrong wire, and it goes early. Cut the right one, and it still goes. I designed it that way.”
Holt twisted against the ropes. The chair scraped concrete. “Iris, get out. Take the photo and run.”
“No,” I said.
Croft smiled. It was a thin, bloodless thing. “Your sister said the same thing. Right before I put her in the ground.”
The words hit like a punch to the sternum. I kept the camera up, my finger resting on the shutter release. The timer clicked down: 4:32. 4:31. 4:30.
“You’re lying,” I said. “You never found her body.”
“I didn’t need to.” Croft stepped sideways, circling toward the bomb. It was a crude thing—a bundle of dynamite strapped to a metal frame, wires running to a digital timer. Holt sat two feet from it, his wrists bound to the chair’s armrests with zip ties. “I buried her where no one would look. Under the factory’s concrete floor. She’s been there seven years, Iris. Right beneath your feet.”
My throat tightened. The camera felt heavier. The ghostly replay from the film I’d developed—my sister running, terrified, through these same halls—flashed behind my eyes.
“You’re stalling,” Holt said. His voice was hoarse but steady. “He’s waiting for the timer to hit zero. Don’t let him distract you.”
Croft laughed. “The detective thinks he’s clever. But he’s tied to a chair with a bomb strapped to his chest. What’s clever about that?”
I lowered the camera. Not to surrender—to think.
The timer: 3:58.
I’d seen the bomb’s wiring in the ghostly replay. The flash of the Leica’s shutter had triggered it—the camera’s curse, or gift, showing me the final sixty seconds of anything I photographed. I’d aimed at the timer, not at Croft. The replay had played out in my darkroom: a sequence of wires, a digital countdown, a single red cable that pulsed like a heartbeat.
But the replay had been fast. Blurred. I’d seen the red wire, but I hadn’t seen where it led.
“You’re thinking,” Croft said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re trying to find a way out. There isn’t one.”
“There’s always a way out,” I said.
I raised the camera again. Croft’s smile widened.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take my picture. Show the world what I am. But you’ll still be dead in three minutes.”
I didn’t take his picture.
I took another photo of the bomb.
The shutter clicked. The flash illuminated the factory’s dark hall, casting Croft’s shadow long and jagged across the concrete floor. The Leica’s mechanism whirred as the film advanced.
Croft’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer. I lowered the camera, ejected the roll of film, and shoved it into my coat pocket. Then I pulled out a fresh roll from my bag—the last one I had.
“You’re wasting film,” Croft said.
“I’m buying time.”
The timer: 2:44.
I loaded the new roll, my fingers moving on muscle memory. The Leica’s back clicked shut. I wound the advance lever, felt the film catch.
“Iris,” Holt said. “Whatever you’re planning, do it fast.”
Croft stepped toward me. “Give me the camera.”
“No.”
“Give it to me, or I’ll shoot him myself.”
He pulled a revolver from his coat. The barrel glinted under the fluorescent light. He aimed it at Holt’s head.
The timer: 2:12.
“You won’t shoot him,” I said. “You want me to watch him die. That’s the whole point. The bomb is your art. The gun is just a prop.”
Croft’s jaw tightened. The smile faded.
“You think you know me,” he said.
“I know you’re a photographer. You don’t kill with your hands. You kill with the frame.”
I raised the camera again. This time, I aimed at Croft.
“Take the shot,” he said. “I dare you.”
I didn’t.
I aimed past him, at the wall behind the bomb. At the wiring that snaked from the timer into the concrete. At the junction box bolted to the support beam.
I pressed the shutter.
The flash popped. The Leica whirred.
Croft’s face twisted. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Learning.”
I lowered the camera and ran.
Not toward Holt. Not toward the exit. Toward the junction box.
Croft shouted. A gunshot cracked. The bullet sparked off the concrete two feet from my leg.
I didn’t stop.
The junction box was old, rusted, held shut by a single latch. I yanked it open. Inside, a tangle of wires fed into the factory’s main power line. The bomb’s timer was connected to it—a secondary power source, in case the battery failed.
The timer: 1:08.
I pulled out my pocket knife. The blade was small, dull, but it would cut copper.
“Iris, don’t!” Croft’s voice was raw. “You’ll kill us all!”
“You already planned that.”
I found the red wire. The same one I’d seen in the replay. It ran from the junction box to the bomb’s timer, wrapped in black electrical tape.
I cut it.
The timer stopped.
1:03.
The factory went silent. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder. Croft stared at the frozen numbers, his mouth open.
“That’s not possible,” he said.
“You designed it to fail if you cut the wrong wire,” I said. “But you didn’t design it to fail if someone cut the power feed.”
Holt let out a breath. “Jesus, Iris.”
Croft’s face went red. He raised the revolver again, this time aiming at my chest.
“You think you’ve won?” he said. “You’ve bought yourself thirty seconds. I still have the gun. I still have the detective. And I still have your sister’s body buried under this floor.”
“Then show me,” I said.
“What?”
“Show me where she is. Take me to her.”
Croft laughed. It was a broken, hollow sound. “You want to see her? Fine. I’ll take you to her. Right after I put a bullet in your head.”
He stepped forward. The revolver’s barrel was three feet from my face.
Holt lunged.
The chair tipped. Holt hit the floor, the bomb frame clattering beside him. The zip ties held, but the movement threw Croft’s aim off. The gunshot went wide, punching a hole in the wall behind me.
I dropped the camera.
It hit the concrete with a crack. The lens shattered.
“No!”
I dove for it, but Croft was faster. He kicked the Leica across the floor. It skidded into the shadows, glass crunching under its weight.
“There,” he said. “Now you’re blind.”
I looked at the camera. The lens was a spiderweb of cracks. The body was dented. The film inside was exposed, ruined.
Seven years. Seven years of using that camera, of trusting it, of letting it show me the truth. And now it was dead.
Croft aimed the revolver at my head.
“Any last words?” he said.
I looked at Holt. He was on the floor, still tied to the chair, his eyes locked on mine. He shook his head. A warning. A plea.
I looked at Croft.
“You’re wrong,” I said.
“About what?”
“About my sister. She didn’t die here.”
Croft’s eyes flickered. “I buried her myself.”
“You buried someone. But it wasn’t her.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the roll of film I’d ejected earlier. The one with the bomb’s replay.
“I developed this in the factory’s darkroom,” I said. “Before I came to find you. The replay showed the bomb’s wiring. But it also showed something else.”
“What?”
“The floor. The concrete. The cracks in the foundation.”
I held up the film. “Your bomb wasn’t the only thing buried under this factory. There’s a body under the northeast corner. But it’s not my sister.”
Croft’s face went pale. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. The replay showed a woman’s hand. A ring on her finger. A wedding band.”
Croft’s hand trembled. The revolver wavered.
“You killed your wife,” I said. “And you buried her here. That’s why you faked your death. That’s why you became The Shutter. You weren’t hunting imperfections. You were hiding your first murder.”
The revolver dropped an inch. Croft’s eyes were wide, unfocused.
“How did you know?” he whispered.
“The replay showed everything. The ring. The date on the concrete pour. The way you dragged her body across the floor.”
I stepped closer. “You’ve been running for seven years, Croft. But you never left this factory. You built your whole world around the lie that you killed my sister. But you didn’t. You killed your wife. And my sister—she’s still out there.”
Croft’s face crumpled. The revolver fell to his side.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “She found out. About the photos. About the things I did to those women. She was going to tell the captain.”
“So you killed her.”
“I had to.”
“No,” I said. “You chose to.”
I bent down and picked up the broken Leica. The lens was shattered, but the body was intact. The shutter still clicked when I pressed the release.
I aimed it at Croft.
“Take the photo,” he said. “Finish it.”
I pressed the shutter.
The click echoed through the factory. The flash illuminated Croft’s face—broken, defeated, human.
The Leica whirred. The film advanced.
I lowered the camera.
“It’s over,” I said.
Croft dropped the revolver. It clattered on the concrete. He sank to his knees, his hands covering his face.
Holt was already on his feet, the zip ties cut with my knife. He picked up the revolver and cuffed Croft.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked at the Leica. The cracked lens. The dented body. The film inside, holding the truth.
“I will be,” I said.
The rain started again, drumming on the factory’s tin roof. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
I held the camera close and walked out into the dark.
I held the Leica against my chest, the metal body cold through my shirt. Croft stood between me and Holt, his bare face a roadmap of old scars and newer cruelties. The fluorescent light carved shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and his eyes—pale, almost colorless—watched me with the patience of a man who had already won.
“You can’t stop it,” he said. “That timer is welded to the frame. Cut the wrong wire, and it goes early. Cut the right one, and it still goes. I designed it that way.”
Holt twisted against the ropes. The chair scraped concrete. “Iris, get out. Take the photo and run.”
“No,” I said.
Croft smiled. It was a thin, bloodless thing. “Your sister said the same thing. Right before I put her in the ground.”
The words hit like a punch to the sternum. I kept the camera up, my finger resting on the shutter release. The timer clicked down: 4:32. 4:31. 4:30.
“You’re lying,” I said. “You never found her body.”
“I didn’t need to.” Croft stepped sideways, circling toward the bomb. It was a crude thing—a bundle of dynamite strapped to a metal frame, wires running to a digital timer. Holt sat two feet from it, his wrists bound to the chair’s armrests with zip ties. “I buried her where no one would look. Under the factory’s concrete floor. She’s been there seven years, Iris. Right beneath your feet.”
My throat tightened. The camera felt heavier. The ghostly replay from the film I’d developed—my sister running, terrified, through these same halls—flashed behind my eyes.
“You’re stalling,” Holt said. His voice was hoarse but steady. “He’s waiting for the timer to hit zero. Don’t let him distract you.”
Croft laughed. “The detective thinks he’s clever. But he’s tied to a chair with a bomb strapped to his chest. What’s clever about that?”
I lowered the camera. Not to surrender—to think.
The timer: 3:58.
I’d seen the bomb’s wiring in the ghostly replay. The flash of the Leica’s shutter had triggered it—the camera’s curse, or gift, showing me the final sixty seconds of anything I photographed. I’d aimed at the timer, not at Croft. The replay had played out in my darkroom: a sequence of wires, a digital countdown, a single red cable that pulsed like a heartbeat.
But the replay had been fast. Blurred. I’d seen the red wire, but I hadn’t seen where it led.
“You’re thinking,” Croft said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re trying to find a way out. There isn’t one.”
“There’s always a way out,” I said.
I raised the camera again. Croft’s smile widened.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take my picture. Show the world what I am. But you’ll still be dead in three minutes.”
I didn’t take his picture.
I took another photo of the bomb.
The shutter clicked. The flash illuminated the factory’s dark hall, casting Croft’s shadow long and jagged across the concrete floor. The Leica’s mechanism whirred as the film advanced.
Croft’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer. I lowered the camera, ejected the roll of film, and shoved it into my coat pocket. Then I pulled out a fresh roll from my bag—the last one I had.
“You’re wasting film,” Croft said.
“I’m buying time.”
The timer: 2:44.
I loaded the new roll, my fingers moving on muscle memory. The Leica’s back clicked shut. I wound the advance lever, felt the film catch.
“Iris,” Holt said. “Whatever you’re planning, do it fast.”
Croft stepped toward me. “Give me the camera.”
“No.”
“Give it to me, or I’ll shoot him myself.”
He pulled a revolver from his coat. The barrel glinted under the fluorescent light. He aimed it at Holt’s head.
The timer: 2:12.
“You won’t shoot him,” I said. “You want me to watch him die. That’s the whole point. The bomb is your art. The gun is just a prop.”
Croft’s jaw tightened. The smile faded.
“You think you know me,” he said.
“I know you’re a photographer. You don’t kill with your hands. You kill with the frame.”
I raised the camera again. This time, I aimed at Croft.
“Take the shot,” he said. “I dare you.”
I didn’t.
I aimed past him, at the wall behind the bomb. At the wiring that snaked from the timer into the concrete. At the junction box bolted to the support beam.
I pressed the shutter.
The flash popped. The Leica whirred.
Croft’s face twisted. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Learning.”
I lowered the camera and ran.
Not toward Holt. Not toward the exit. Toward the junction box.
Croft shouted. A gunshot cracked. The bullet sparked off the concrete two feet from my leg.
I didn’t stop.
The junction box was old, rusted, held shut by a single latch. I yanked it open. Inside, a tangle of wires fed into the factory’s main power line. The bomb’s timer was connected to it—a secondary power source, in case the battery failed.
The timer: 1:08.
I pulled out my pocket knife. The blade was small, dull, but it would cut copper.
“Iris, don’t!” Croft’s voice was raw. “You’ll kill us all!”
“You already planned that.”
I found the red wire. The same one I’d seen in the replay. It ran from the junction box to the bomb’s timer, wrapped in black electrical tape.
I cut it.
The timer stopped.
1:03.
The factory went silent. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder. Croft stared at the frozen numbers, his mouth open.
“That’s not possible,” he said.
“You designed it to fail if you cut the wrong wire,” I said. “But you didn’t design it to fail if someone cut the power feed.”
Holt let out a breath. “Jesus, Iris.”
Croft’s face went red. He raised the revolver again, this time aiming at my chest.
“You think you’ve won?” he said. “You’ve bought yourself thirty seconds. I still have the gun. I still have the detective. And I still have your sister’s body buried under this floor.”
“Then show me,” I said.
“What?”
“Show me where she is. Take me to her.”
Croft laughed. It was a broken, hollow sound. “You want to see her? Fine. I’ll take you to her. Right after I put a bullet in your head.”
He stepped forward. The revolver’s barrel was three feet from my face.
Holt lunged.
The chair tipped. Holt hit the floor, the bomb frame clattering beside him. The zip ties held, but the movement threw Croft’s aim off. The gunshot went wide, punching a hole in the wall behind me.
I dropped the camera.
It hit the concrete with a crack. The lens shattered.
“No!”
I dove for it, but Croft was faster. He kicked the Leica across the floor. It skidded into the shadows, glass crunching under its weight.
“There,” he said. “Now you’re blind.”
I looked at the camera. The lens was a spiderweb of cracks. The body was dented. The film inside was exposed, ruined.
Seven years. Seven years of using that camera, of trusting it, of letting it show me the truth. And now it was dead.
Croft aimed the revolver at my head.
“Any last words?” he said.
I looked at Holt. He was on the floor, still tied to the chair, his eyes locked on mine. He shook his head. A warning. A plea.
I looked at Croft.
“You’re wrong,” I said.
“About what?”
“About my sister. She didn’t die here.”
Croft’s eyes flickered. “I buried her myself.”
“You buried someone. But it wasn’t her.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the roll of film I’d ejected earlier. The one with the bomb’s replay.
“I developed this in the factory’s darkroom,” I said. “Before I came to find you. The replay showed the bomb’s wiring. But it also showed something else.”
“What?”
“The floor. The concrete. The cracks in the foundation.”
I held up the film. “Your bomb wasn’t the only thing buried under this factory. There’s a body under the northeast corner. But it’s not my sister.”
Croft’s face went pale. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. The replay showed a woman’s hand. A ring on her finger. A wedding band.”
Croft’s hand trembled. The revolver wavered.
“You killed your wife,” I said. “And you buried her here. That’s why you faked your death. That’s why you became The Shutter. You weren’t hunting imperfections. You were hiding your first murder.”
The revolver dropped an inch. Croft’s eyes were wide, unfocused.
“How did you know?” he whispered.
“The replay showed everything. The ring. The date on the concrete pour. The way you dragged her body across the floor.”
I stepped closer. “You’ve been running for seven years, Croft. But you never left this factory. You built your whole world around the lie that you killed my sister. But you didn’t. You killed your wife. And my sister—she’s still out there.”
Croft’s face crumpled. The revolver fell to his side.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “She found out. About the photos. About the things I did to those women. She was going to tell the captain.”
“So you killed her.”
“I had to.”
“No,” I said. “You chose to.”
I bent down and picked up the broken Leica. The lens was shattered, but the body was intact. The shutter still clicked when I pressed the release.
I aimed it at Croft.
“Take the photo,” he said. “Finish it.”
I pressed the shutter.
The click echoed through the factory. The flash illuminated Croft’s face—broken, defeated, human.
The Leica whirred. The film advanced.
I lowered the camera.
“It’s over,” I said.
Croft dropped the revolver. It clattered on the concrete. He sank to his knees, his hands covering his face.
Holt was already on his feet, the zip ties cut with my knife. He picked up the revolver and cuffed Croft.
“You okay?” he asked.
I looked at the Leica. The cracked lens. The dented body. The film inside, holding the truth.
“I will be,” I said.
The rain started again, drumming on the factory’s tin roof. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
I held the camera close and walked out into the dark.