Swiftly, she caught the piece of fruit and took a bite. “Maybe if you stopped throwing things at me, I wouldn’t have to think about it.”
“I’m testing your reflexes.”
“I’m about to test yours.” Munching on the apple, she read the Ripper’s invitation again. “Where is this place anyway? Miller’s Court?”
“It doesn’t exist anymore,” I said. “Back in 1888, there used to be rooms for rent off Dorset Street. The Ripper killed and dismembered Mary Jane Kelly in one of those rooms.”
“Wasn’t she the one who was cut open from head to toe?” Evelyn asked. “Barely recognizable because her face was all slashed?”
“That’s her.”
“Knowing what the Ripper did to her, you still want to go there?”
“Like I said, Dorset Street is gone.” I pulled up a picture I’d taken on my phone to show her. “It was built over. White’s Row is as close as you can get. Don’t you remember from the Ripper tour?”
“Mostly, I remember wanting to go home.”
I plucked the letter from her and smoothed it out. The handwriting was the same as the previous letter I’d received, but it looked familiar for more reasons than one.
“Do you think it’s someone we know?” I asked Evelyn. “The Ripper?”
“Why would it be?”
I traced the letters with the tip of my finger. “I feel like I’ve seen this writing before.”
She glanced over my shoulder. “I think you’re desperate to see clues that aren’t really there. I don’t know anyone with handwriting like that.”
“You were the one who encouraged me to investigate the Mouse Killer,” I reminded her. “You can’t suddenly change your mind and tell me I can’t go to Miller’s Court.”
“You mean White’s Row?” she asked dryly.
“I’m not kidding.”
She flopped on the couch, apple in hand. “Neither am I. It’s different when the killer personally invites you to be his next victim. You’re not going.”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“If I have to.”
I winked. “Challenge accepted.”
As Evelyn turned away, I studied the handwriting once more. Suddenly, the memory of where I’d seen it before came back to me.
“No,” I muttered. “It can’t be.”
“Did you say something?” Evelyn called.
“Nothing.” I shuffled through my photos of when I’d first arrived in London. “Nothing at all.”
Evelyn stayed up later than usual to keep an eye on me. Around eleven o’clock, though, her eyelids started drooping. Her head lolled against the sofa, and she snored lightly. I batted her with a cushion.
“What—?” She shook off her fatigue. “I fell asleep and you didn’t sneak out?”
I offered her a cup of tea. “I wanted to make sure we were on even footing. Drink this. It’ll help you stay awake.”
She sipped from the mug and sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to bed? If the Ripper gets someone, we’ll hear about it in the morning.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get to bed soon enough.”
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn lay draped across the couch, struggling to remain awake. “You did something,” she mumbled as I covered her with a blanket. “You put something in the tea.”
“Just a bit of Benadryl.” I tucked her in. “Nothing that will hurt you or leave you hungover in the morning.”
She could hardly hold her head above the cushions or speak full sentences. “Don’t go. Jack—”
I pushed her hair out of her face and turned out the light. “You’ll be safe here. That’s all I want.”
At last, her eyes flickered shut. She was out, and not long after, so was I.
I walked to White’s Row, keeping an eye on the time. Midnight wasn’t long off, and neither was my date with the Ripper. The closer I got to old Miller’s Court, the faster my blood thrummed in my veins. Like the night in Mitre Square, my senses felt sharpened. The streetlights burned brighter, the water in the streets trickled louder, and the imaginary breath of past victims whispered against the back of my neck.
A single pair of police officers watched over White’s Row. They were nothing like the brigade that had showed up on Henriques Street. Officer Stowick was nowhere to be seen. I convinced myself there were more police around, waiting until the Ripper showed up to emerge. The two constables present stood at the wrong end of the street to catch the culprit. 13 Miller’s Court, where Mary Kelly had been found, was on the opposite corner.
I waited across the way, scanning the street for a glimpse of a stranger in the shadows. This time, I refused to be caught unawares. When I was sure no one stood in the darkness, I crossed the road and placed my back against the building that used to be Miller’s Court.
“Come on out,” I muttered under my breath. “I know who you are.”
Midnight came and went. Laughter echoed from the other end of the street as the constables pretended to do their jobs. The air grew colder. Drops of dew alighted on my hair and coat. I shivered and wiped the condensation off. My teeth chattered. I wished I’d brought a heavier jacket to wait out the night.
At one o’clock, I figured the killer had gotten cold feet. Perhaps they weren’t ready to face me after all. The constables had fallen quiet and retreated to their vehicle to get out of the cold. A thick layer of fog kept the streetlights from performing their purpose as well as necessary. It was time to call it a night.
As soon as I stepped away from the building and off the curb, the slightest noise caught my attention: a rasp of a boot against the street. Right as a long, sharp blade flashed to the level of my throat, I whipped around, flung open a switch knife I’d taken from Evelyn’s bedside table, and slashed across the front of my attacker’s torso. The long, hooded cloak prevented my blade from striking too deep, but it was enough to stun the Ripper. A gloved hand
