“You?” I thought about it. “Caribbean piracy? You always loved Elizabeth Swann.”
Evelyn grinned and winked. “I think that had more to do with Keira Knightley than an interest in Caribbean piracy.”
“Touché.”
When Oxford came into view, an invisible band constricted around my heart. As I searched for a legal place to park, Evelyn studied me from the passenger seat.
“All right?” she asked. This time, I knew what she was asking.
“I haven’t been here since before my mom died.”
“Should we turn back?”
I shook my head. “We made it this far. I’m excited. This will be good for me.”
To keep things light, Evelyn signed us up for an “Oxford in Films” tour, during which the guide showed us to various locations around campus that had been used as settings in movies. Most notably, Duke Humphrey’s Library had once served as the Hogwarts library in the Harry Potter films. Evelyn, who was less familiar with the campus and more of a Potterhead than I was, gasped and gawked at the architecture. I mostly tagged along in silence. The book smell in the old libraries reminded me of my mother.
“I need coffee,” I told Evelyn at the tour’s end. All the walking, along with the emotional toll of reminiscence, had made me tired.
The rain thickened as Evelyn linked her arm through mine and pulled me across the street. Everyone outside quickened their pace and bowed their heads, as if we all had to pay our respects to some unknown weather god. Droplets landed on the back of my neck, but I didn’t pull up my hood to block them. The cold water did well to clear my head.
“I’ll be in the loo,” Evelyn announced inside. “Get me a tea, will you?”
“Do you need help in there?”
“I’ll manage,” she called over her shoulder. “Tea, extra strong.”
I placed our orders then wandered to the connected bookstore to wait for Evelyn. The shop was a bit touristy, but I didn’t mind. I browsed through finger puppets of famous literary figures and philosophers, random knickknacks that solely existed to amuse you while you worked at your desk, and picture books for young dreamers like I had once been. There were even fake diplomas for sale. As I debated buying one, a tall woman with impossibly high cheekbones and sharp, dark eyebrows came into the library. My memory skipped, as if I should recognize the woman.
“I hate when they don’t have towels in the loo.” Evelyn emerged from the washroom, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. “I realize it’s better for the environment not to waste the paper, but I use them to open the door on my way out. You know how many people don’t wash their hands? Jack, are you listening?”
I wrenched my gaze from the familiar woman as she ventured deep into the library and disappeared. “Yeah, there were no towels.”
She stood next to the window and gazed out at the buckets of rain falling from the sky. “Guess we’re stuck here for a while. Let’s find a desk.”
We picked up our drinks and settled down at an empty desk on the first floor of the library. We weren’t the only people damp enough to take refuge from the rain. Several soggy students plodded in as well. Evelyn pulled out the novel she’d brought with her, reclined, and lost herself in words. I hadn’t thought to bring a book of my own, so I got up to peruse the library.
I didn’t purposely seek out the title that caught my eye. I’d wandered into the psychology section by accident, and the book jumped out at me like a jack-in-the-box. The Mind of a Killer: An Inside Look at the Most Terrifying Murderers in History.
I stared at the book’s spine but didn’t reach for it. I hadn’t heard of the author before, and I certainly hadn’t heard of the book before. My fingers itched to pull back the first page and check the table of contents. What were the chances the author had examined the Ripper’s ghastly motives?
I thought of my promise to Evelyn: that I would drop my obsession with William Lewis’s murder while I was helping her get on her feet. Technically, I hadn’t promised to stop researching the original Ripper. I grabbed the book and flipped it open. There it was: an entire forty-page chapter dedicated to what might have been going on in the Ripper’s head. I sat on the floor to read it and hoped Evelyn wouldn’t come looking for me too soon.
A few minutes later, I discovered The Mind of a Killer didn’t have any new insight to offer me. The author, a gentleman named Oliver B. Alcott, more or less stated what I already knew. The Ripper, like most serial killers, had a singular method of fulfilling his sick desires. The severity of his victims’ mutilations grew worse as his fantasies escalated, until he carved up the last body with such ferocity and his needs were supposedly satisfied. Alcott theorized that the Whitechapel murders may have stopped because the Ripper achieved his final goal. Personally, I didn’t agree with him. I always thought the Ripper relocated and continued killing elsewhere.
As I made to close the book, my fingertips sensed indentations on the pages. I lifted the book to the light. If I angled it properly, I could see the letters pressed into the page. Someone had been taking notes on this chapter, and the pressure of the pen had left markings.
“Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil I can borrow?” I asked a student near me. She helpfully tore paper from her notebook and handed me a pencil. I thanked her, placed the paper over the book’s margins, and carefully shaded across it. The words appeared white against the gray pencil markings. I turned the paper to read them. They did not form full sentences. Moreover, they didn’t make much sense at all.
“There you are.”
I jumped at the sound of Evelyn’s voice and knocked over my coffee.
