“Inspector Baker!” another journalist called to the fatigued investigator, recapturing my attention. “Do you believe this murder is a tribute to the original Ripper kill on Buck’s Row in 1888? Should we fear the wrath of another Leather Apron?”
“Bollocks,” the inspector muttered under his breath. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention, I might not have picked up the subtle swear word. Baker addressed his interviewers again. “As far as we’re concerned, this is a mere coincidence. There is no evidence that this homicide is connected to the original Ripper case. Do not buy into the preposterous idea that a new Ripper is on the loose. It will encourage fear and chaos in the streets. I implore the citizens of London to continue with their daily lives. As usual, exercise caution when outside late at night and return home at a respectable time to avoid trouble. Simple common sense will keep you safe.”
The inspector stepped off his makeshift stage, but the journalists continued to hound him with further questions. The news program switched back to the collared reporter.
“It is not uncommon for an attack like this to occur on or near Durward Street,” he said calmly. “Three years ago, a woman was assaulted in the same place, though she survived the mugging. Two years prior to that, another woman was murdered a few blocks away. Each time, the public attempted to attach the crime to old history, and each time, the culprit was apprehended with the help of CCTV footage, preventing any further bloodshed. Only time will tell if there is a new Ripper in town.”
The TV switched off. I saw that Evelyn had finished her breakfast and commandeered the remote. “I have physiotherapy in half an hour,” she announced. “You’re driving me there, yeah? I think it’d be helpful for you to see how the therapist works with my shoulder.”
Evelyn winced her way through the therapy session. So far, she had not regained much mobility in her shoulder. As the hour wore on, Evelyn’s expression grew grumpier. Her eyebrows drew together, and she pursed her lips like a dissatisfied restaurant patron. The therapist, a kind woman named Alba, scored high on her patience assessment. No matter Evelyn’s attitude, Alba remained calm and soothing.
“You’re expecting too much of yourself too soon,” she told Evelyn as the session came to a close. “Usually, I have the opposite problem with my patients. They whine about how much it hurts.”
“It does hurt,” Evelyn said through gritted teeth as she attempted extra reps of the last exercise. “But I have to get back in shape.”
Alba rested a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, preventing her from lifting it again. “You’re done for the day. Let’s get some ice on there.”
While Alba left to fetch the cooling pack, Evelyn went back to her exercises. Sweat beaded on her forehead as the color drained from her face.
“Maybe you should take it easy,” I suggested. “You heard what Alba said.”
“I can’t baby my shoulder,” she huffed. “You know how many of my coworkers got hurt and never came back because they didn’t do enough PT?”
She struggled to lift a two-pound weight. A vein in her forehead popped. If she continued doing this, I feared she might burst a blood vessel in her brain. I plucked the weight out of her hand.
“I’m doing this for your own good,” I promised her when her eyes stabbed daggers into mine. “Listen to the therapist.”
“Ah, see!” Alba returned with a plastic bag full of ice. As she taped it to Evelyn’s shoulder, she said, “Your friend has sense. Is she sticking around?”
“For now,” Evelyn grumbled.
“For as long as she needs me,” I corrected. “What can I do to help her heal?”
“Keep her on a leash.”
Evelyn growled, “I am not a dog.”
“You bark like one,” I commented, earning a sharp smack to my thigh. I caught Evelyn’s good hand and sandwiched it between mine. She tugged halfheartedly then gave up. “Don’t worry, Alba,” I said. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t ruin your work.”
“That’s all I ask.”
A shrill siren sounded in the streets as a police car passed by the window of the office. Alba’s face scrunched up, worry etched in each line.
“Be careful heading home,” she warned. “You don’t know who might be roaming the streets.”
“You mean the Ripper?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Alba shuddered. “Don’t say that. It would be a nightmare.”
“But you think that’s what could be happening, right?” I pressed. “Have you lived in Whitechapel for a long time? Does this sort of thing happen often?”
Evelyn pinched the sensitive skin on the back of my arm.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, Alba. I’m obsessed with my health. She’s obsessed with murderers. Who’s more balanced now?”
Alba rolled up Evelyn’s paperwork and whacked her lightly on the head with it. “That’s enough out of you. Promise me you won’t overwork that shoulder. If we have to start this process all over again, I won’t forgive you.”
“Fine.”
Evelyn rose to her feet and lumbered off to the small locker room to rinse the sweat from her face, leaving me alone with Alba.
“Not to badger you,” I said, “but are you really worried Whitechapel isn’t safe? I’m a tourist. I could use some advice.”
Alba used an antibacterial wipe to clean the equipment Evelyn had worked on. “The Ripper was one of the most famous serial killers to ever live. There are people who idolize his work, especially considering he was never caught. Every once in a while, Whitechapel gets a scare like this. It shouldn’t be taken lightly.” Alba tossed the wipe into the bin, her hand trembling. “I worry because the police don’t have any leads. Have you seen the news lately?”
“We watched this morning,” I said. “They’re studying the CCTV footage—”
“Oi, let’s go!” Evelyn barked as she emerged from the locker room and tossed a balled-up paper towel into the bin. “This place depresses me.”
In the lobby, Evelyn stopped short, and I bounced off
