“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.
“Tea?” Deepali offered, lifting the kettle off the burner. “I find tea soothes all. Please sit.”
We muttered our thanks and took a seat at the small kitchen table. A ginger kitten lifted itself from a nearby cushion, stretched, and hopped into my lap. It purred happily as it kneaded my thighs.
“That’s Honey Pot,” Deepali said. “He strolled up the river path a few days ago and decided to live here. I had no say in the matter.”
Honey Pot meowed as if in reply. Deepali set a cup of tea in front of me. She’d made her own bags and filled them with fresh herbs and spices.
“Let it steep for a few minutes.” She sat across from me and blew steam away from her own mug. “Shall we wade through this awkwardness together?” When I was unable to reply, she said, “I’ll start, then. When I saw you at my house that night, I was as shocked as you. I have not seen you since you were four years old.” She took a deep breath and blew it toward the ceiling. “Your mother decided to keep you away from us, a decision I wish she’d never come to.”
Confusion made it possible for me
