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 sisters. 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
