“Your secret is safe with me.” And it was, as long as he hadn’t been the one to knife Rosie Brigham and steal her uterus while she bled out in the streets. “Hide that file and come with me.”
Once the file was safely under his sweater again, I took him back to Evelyn’s room and closed the door.
“Out with it,” I ordered. “Who was Rosie Brigham to you?”
“My girlfriend,” he said.
“Your girlfriend?” I repeated, confused. “That can’t be. She was twenty. You’re, what, sixteen?”
“Almost seventeen.” He wiped his nose. “That’s why I couldn’t say anything. Rosie was a teaching assistant at my school. One day, I was helping her grade papers and—I couldn’t help it—I kissed her. She didn’t push me away.”
I tried not to let my nose wrinkle, unsure what a respectable twenty-year-old teaching assistant would have seen in this purple-haired, crying mess of a boy. “Is this why you lost your prefect standing? Someone found you out?”
“One of the teachers,” he confirmed. “He caught us in a classroom—uh—”
“No need to elaborate on that.”
He sighed with relief. “They let me off with a warning, saying it was Rosie’s fault because she was older than me. She had to take some leave without pay. When she came back, she told me she didn’t want to be together anymore, but I could tell she was lying. That night—the night she died—we agreed to meet at a bar in Whitechapel to tie up loose ends. We figured it was far enough away from the school that no one would see us.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”
Matthew shook his head. “First of all, I was right. Rosie didn’t want to break up. I gave her my prefect pin to prove she was worth all of the trouble we’d been through. Out in the alleyway, we—”
“Again, skip it.”
“The same teacher came out of a nearby bar,” Matthew explained. “I told Rosie to run, and she did. The teacher caught me instead. He turned me in for leaving the school grounds and violating the terms of my student contract. I lost my prefect status, and since my grades had dropped, they put me on academic probation too. One more mistake, and they’ll expel me.” The tears that had waited on his eyelashes finally spilled over as he collapsed in the chair by Evelyn’s bed. “It doesn’t matter, though. Rosie’s dead because of me.”
I handed him a box of tissues. “Matthew, listen to me. None of this is your fault. Yes, there’s something to be said about sleeping with a teacher’s assistant, but you can’t help who you fall in love with. That doesn’t mean Rosie died because of you.”
“I told her to meet me in Whitechapel,” he said, voice thick with phlegm. “I told her to run off on her own. If I’d stayed with her, she might still be alive.”
“Or the Ripper would have killed both of you.”
He curled in on himself and let go, sobbing with such profound release that I wondered if he had not allowed himself to cry until this very moment. I rubbed his back in slow circles. I wasn’t much older than him when I’d lost my mother. I knew what such a loss could do to a person at that age.
I knelt beside his chair. “Matthew, look at me. I’m doing everything I can to catch the Ripper, but to do that, I need her file.”
He blotted his face with a handful of tissues and drew the file out from under his sweater. “Take it. I don’t know why I bothered.”
“Stealing it? Why did you?”
His eyes were red and runny. “No one would tell me what happened to her exactly because I’m not family. I thought if I found out, it might help me find closure. Get over her, you know?”
“I know.” I pushed his purple hair away from his face. “The best thing you can do for yourself is to take it easy. Go back to school and focus on your studies. Make a life for yourself.”
“Am I supposed to forget about Rosie?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You don’t have to forget her. Hold her in your heart and remind yourself that she would have wanted you to be happy. She would have wanted you to succeed and find peace. Can you do that?”
He nodded.
“I’m going to find the Ripper,” I promised him. “And when I do, I’ll make sure you’re the first one to know.”
12
September passed like a slow, torturous trek through a muddy jungle. With each step, my boots sank deeper into the muck, and it took all the more effort to pull them free. Every day seemed rainier than the last. The world turned gray, and so did my mood. This was the London the great poets and writers warned you about, as dull and taciturn as Fitzwilliam Darcy before Elizabeth Bennet came along. The sun rarely made an appearance, and when it did, it struggled to shine. The cloud-filtered light was no more effective than fluorescents above a cramped cubicle.
Evelyn had pulled through her second surgery, but the outcome wasn’t pretty. According to Doctor Evans, the ligaments in her shoulder were torn completely. They had to do some pretty heavy work to repair them as well as the nerves Evelyn had damaged in her quest to rescue me from the drunken bar guy. Her shoulder was a patchwork of bruises and stitches, but the depression that set in when Evelyn realized she would have to start her recovery all over again became her tallest hurdle.
She did her best to hide it, making conversation as best she could. If I didn’t know her so well, I might have fallen for her false interest and shallow smiles. When she forgot to keep her mask in place, her discontent grew obvious. Only seldom did she move. Before, she had kept up with her regular exercise routine as much as possible, doing one-armed push-ups and pull-ups, squats, and even running around the block to keep the rest of her body in good health while her shoulder healed. Now, she didn’t bother with exercise at all, preferring to spend most of her time in the big leather armchair. She didn’t read or watch TV but gazed off into the distance, seemingly at nothing at all.
More than once, I caught her standing as close to the windows as possible, staring straight down as if she wished to press through the glass by the process of osmosis and plummet to the street below. In those times, I gently led her away from the view and suggested one outing or another. She placated me, accompanying me to Covent Garden once and to a musical on West End another time. If I was so inclined, I could pretend that everything was fine, but I worried for my friend, especially on each morning she had to return to Alba.
“I can’t,” she told Alba during a particularly difficult session. Sweat coated her face, so when tears leaked over her eyelashes, you almost couldn’t tell she was crying too. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“One more,” Alba said firmly. She held Evelyn’s arm, supporting almost her entire weight, as Evelyn fought to finish the exercise. “You can do this. Come on, Evelyn.”
Evelyn turned purple with effort. Her cheeks puffed up as she tried to bring her arm up again.
“You can do it,” I urged.
“Shut up,” she growled. “Shut up and go away.”
Hurt pulsed through me, especially when Alba caught my eye and subtly nodded toward the waiting room. Willing myself not to cry, I left Alba to finish with Evelyn and went to wait outside.
The streets of Whitechapel had calmed in the few weeks that had passed since Rosie Brigham’s murder. Without news of additional deaths, most people believed the danger had passed. I wasn’t so certain. The end of September crept closer, and along with it came the night of the Double Event, when the Ripper supposedly slaughtered two women within forty-five minutes of each other.
Evelyn’s melancholy had been good for one thing: she’d stopped bothering me about my investigation. With all the time we spent indoors, I had plenty of opportunity to dive into the case, but I uncovered only frustration. Rosie Brigham’s stolen hospital file told me what I already knew; she had been killed around 5:30 a.m. The official cause of death was a severed throat.
Further digging got me nowhere. One afternoon, while Evelyn took a long nap, I’d attended Rosie’s funeral. Her parents sobbed, as did her brothers and siste
rs. Afterward, I approached the family and offered my condolences. I had intended to ask them about Rosie’s murder, but Evelyn’s voice mentally warned me against it. This was not the time or the place.
In the crowd of black outfits at the wake, I spotted a shock of purple. I wormed my way across the room, holding a canape aloft, and joined Matthew, who stood by himself.
“She would have hated this,” he’d muttered. “Everyone crying. Did you hear the speeches? Those people didn’t know her at all.”
“Do you know these people?” I asked. “Anyone here that makes you feel uncomfortable?”
“Almost everyone,” Matthew replied. “Her parents know who I am. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out yet.”
“I meant anyone who might have wanted to harm Rosie,” I rectified.
He scanned the forlorn faces. “Almost everyone here is Rosie’s family or friends. I don’t think any of them would have killed her.” His voice hitched, and he stuffed a salmon roll in his mouth to hide it. “The cops haven’t made progress, either, have they?”
They hadn’t. Like myself, the police had lost every lead. The entire city of London was collectively stumped when it came to the Ripper’s identity. He was a ghost in the night, uncatchable, which made him all the more terrifying.
Nevertheless, the social media frenzy faded. The bars stopped offering Ripper shots and hosting ridiculous Victorian-styled fashion parties. The news ceased berating the police for their lack of progress, and the public forgot about it as well. I wished I could do the same.
Alba emerged from the therapy clinic and handed me the coat I’d accidentally left inside. “Try not to be upset with Evelyn for what happened in there,” she told me. “She’s embarrassed and angry about all the things she can’t do.”
“She blames me,” I murmured. “I’m the reason she has to start everything over. Her shoulder’s worse because of me.”
“She is not responsible for your actions,” Alba said wisely. “Just as you are not responsible for hers. She knew the risk of injury when she acted to protect you. That was her choice. This pain and struggle to come back is the consequence.”
“I suppose.” I gazed off into the distance, my eyes burning as I tried to keep my emotions at bay. “But it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been so stupid and gone out that night.”
Alba sighed deeply. “We cannot live in fear. Doing so is equivalent to not living at all.” She patted me on the back. “Evelyn will be out in a minute. The two of you should talk.”
But when Evelyn came out, her dark mood contested any room for conversation. We rode in silence back to the flat. Inside, she dumped her coat on the floor.
“I’m going to take a shower,” she announced.
I picked up the coat, shook off the dust, and hung it in the closet. “Do you need help?”
“No,” she said sharply.
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I didn’t follow. It would take her twice as long to undress without my assistance, but I knew better than to ask again.
As I fried sausages and onions for lunch, I picked up around the flat. Evelyn’s stuff was everywhere. Dirty laundry strewn across the couch, books and note paper on the floor, and snack wrappers on the side tables and windowsills. I couldn’t keep up with the mess she’d been making lately.
When the sausages were done and had gone cold, the shower kept running. I knocked on the door.
“Evelyn? Is everything okay in there?”
No answer came.
My heart thudded against my rib cage. I swallowed hard as I rested my head against the cold door. I knocked again. “Evelyn?”
Still nothing.
“I’m coming in,” I said, reaching for the handle. My breath turned shallow. I prayed not to find something terrible within.
Evelyn sat on the floor of the shower, fully clothed and with the shoulder brace fully strapped on, the water battering her from above. She had lost all will and strength to stand and bathe herself. My chin trembled, but I forced it to solidify. If Evelyn couldn’t do this for herself, I would do it for her.
I turned off the shower and went to work, tenderly freeing Evelyn from her wet clothes and the straps of the shoulder brace. Then I fetched a warm towel from the dryer, wrapped the towel around her, and led her to bed. Once she was comfortable under the covers, I warmed up the sausage, onions, and rice and served lunch on a tray.
Warm and dry, with a little food in her, she regained some of the color in her face. Her eyes brightened slightly but not enough to quell the worry in my chest.
“I need you to try,” I said, my voice shaking as I put the words out there. “I know you’re in this position because of me, but please don’t let it stop you from getting better. Let me help you. Let me do what you asked me to do in the first place.”
Evelyn chewed slowly, clearly taking several moments to think before she replied. At last, she said, “I don’t blame you.”
My shoulders dropped several feet with relief. “You don’t?”
“No,” she replied. “I meant what I said before. I know you can’t help but chase a mystery.” She set her fork aside and covered her face. “I snapped at you this morning because I was ashamed, all right? I can’t do anything for myself. I can’t shower or dress myself or go to the bathroom without someone’s help. If I try, my shoulder burns. It’s like someone’s stretched tape across my muscles, and I can’t move without it snapping. It hurts, and it’s humiliating.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She mustered a smile. “You’re doing everything you can. Honestly, though, talking about it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Maybe we should get out of town,” I suggested. “Go to France or something.”
“I wish.”
“Why not?”
“For one, Alba can’t come with us,” she answered. “I have physical therapy four times a week. Two, we don’t have enough cash flow. And three, I doubt you can resist the Ripper long enough to enjoy a mini vacation in France.”
“You might be right.”
She readjusted herself against the pillows and winced. I helped prop her up. “Any luck on your case?”
“Not even a little bit.” I sighed. “I’ve run every lead dry. Nothing connects Rosie Brigham to William Lewis, other than the way they died. Neither one of them had bad blood with anyone else.”
“Then you know one thing for certain.”
“I do?”
“Are you forgetting why you started chasing this insane investigation in the first place?” she asked. “The killer is mimicking Jack the Ripper. He doesn’t care about picking his victims.”
“It’s the time and place that’s important,” I finished.
“You’re focusing too much on the details of the victims’ lives.” Evelyn used a pen to scratch under her shoulder sling. “The Ripper’s choosing them because they were in the right place at the right time. Chances are if you hang out in Mitre Square next week, you’ll find the killer.”
I placed a hand over my heart in feigned shock. “Evelyn Gray, are you suggesting I stake out at the next potential crime scene and wait for the Ripper to show up?”
She shrugged. “I’m a bit surprised you weren’t already planning to do it.”
What she didn’t know was that I’d passed by the two locations of the Double Event multiple times while out running errands in the last few weeks. I wasn’t sure what I had been looking for—maybe a lurking man who seemed to be scouting the area—but I didn’t find anything unusual. Other than a slight uptick in the number of gawkers—Bertha now offered additional times for her Ripper tour—business near Henriques Street and Mitre Square continued as usual.
With a week until the next potential Ripper murder, I had time to kill, and the crimes in Whitechapel weren’t the only ones on my mind. My mother’s killer continued to haunt me in my dreams. Most nights, I woke covered in sweat with Evelyn staring worriedly at me from her side of the bed. In the
end, I convinced her to take another trip to Windsor with me. Both of us needed to get out of Whitechapel to clear our heads, but I had something else in mind as well.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Evelyn asked me.
We were parked on the road outside the house where Nadine had hosted my mother’s memorial service. My grandmother’s house. I couldn’t spot it through the tall bushes, but that was for the best. I could catch my breath more easily without the house in sight.
“Not at all,” I said. “But she’s the only link to my mother. She’s family. Wow, that feels weird to say.”
“I got your back,” Evelyn assured me. “If she freaks, we’ll be out of there in two seconds flat.”
I squeezed her hand and turned into the long driveway. The house came into view, but this time around, no cars blocked the front of it. I pulled right up to the door and parked. As I mustered the strength to go inside, Evelyn peered at something through the windshield.
“You didn’t say we were coming, did you?” she asked.
“How could I? I don’t have her number?”
“Well, she’s coming out.”
The glass door slid open, and Deepali Pearson stepped outside. She shielded her eyes against the sun and squinted toward the car. I held my breath until Evelyn whacked me with her good hand.
“Get out of the car,” she hissed.
I fumbled for the handle and stumbled out. Deepali’s eyes widened when she realized who had come to call on her.
“It’s you,” she said in a tone that gave nothing away.
I remained one step from the vehicle. “Should I go?”
“No!” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Please, come in. Your friend too.”
I beckoned Evelyn out of the car. Together, we followed Deepali inside. The house was less chaotic than it was on the day of the memorial. The furniture was back in the normal places, and the table dedicated to my mother was gone entirely. The place smelled faintly of turmeric and ginger as a kettle whistled on the stove.
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