My sweaty palm slipped around the handle of the switchblade. “How’s that cut on your stomach? Feeling a little weak yet?”
“You hardly touched me.” She let out an odious giggle. “But I see how big that gash on your arm is. That’ll scar if you survive. Don’t worry, though. You won’t.”
Without warning, she charged toward me. For such a tall woman, she moved faster than anyone I’d met, including Evelyn. Sheer luck, and the fact that I was small enough to fit between the brick wall and a large dumpster to escape her reach, allowed me to evade the sharp blade. I shot out the other end, smelling of trash juice, and sprinted up the alley.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Bertha seized the back of my coat and yanked me toward her. With her arm wrapped around my throat and her knife quickly rising, I had nowhere to go but down. I dropped to my knees, slipping right out of her clutch. Then I spun and slashed her right ankle. To my surprise, the switchblade cut right through the tendon on top of her foot.
She roared in pain and stumbled backward, her foot dangling uselessly from her leg. When she tried to walk, her boot slipped in a puddle of her own blood. Her jaw twitched as she steadied herself against the wall and tested the extent of her new injury.
Panting, I didn’t think to get up and run. My head was woozy, like I’d had too much to drink. As my vision swam, I glanced at my arm. The sleeve of my coat was soaked with blood. An overhead lamp shone on the gash. The wound stretched from the inside of my elbow all the way to the bone of my wrist. I’d underestimated the sheer size of the gash.
“How did it feel?” Bertha gasped. “Putting the knife to someone? It’s good, isn’t it? Exhilarating?”
“Only because I did it for justice,” I replied through tight teeth. I undid my belt, wrapped it around my arm, and pulled it tight like a tourniquet. If it worked to stem the blood flow, I had no idea, but my fingers had begun to go numb. “You’re sick, Bertha. You need help.”
She shook her head and limped toward me. “No, I’m not sick. I’m free. I’ve been waiting to do this my whole life. Lay down, Jack. Let the night take you. Let me take you.”
The numbness spread up my arm. My stomach lurched. The cold pavement leeched the warmth from my body. I was losing too much blood.
“Get away from me,” I tried to say, but my words came out slurred and unintelligible.
Bertha towered over me. Her teeth sparkled in the moonlight as she bared them in a grin. She lifted her hand, the long blade of her knife glistening.
“No,” I gasped. With the last of my strength and lucidity, I hacked blindly with the switchblade. Bertha easily side-stepped my attack. “Get away from me.”
She leaned over me, her eyes attaching to mine. “You were a good girl, Jack. Everyone will remember you. You’re the perfect victim.”
The blade neared my throat, but as I muddled through the darkness, trying desperately to stay conscious, Bertha’s eyes flickered upward in surprise. She retracted the knife as she looked at someone standing near my head.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How did you find—?”
A thump echoed through the alleyway, and Bertha fell limply into the street. I fought to keep my eyes open as a shadow lumbered over me, but I couldn’t stay awake.
Everything went black.
21
Three Months Later
The Windsor café was a warm refuge in a cold winter. The drive from Whitechapel had been long and slippery. In the city, it hadn’t snowed so much as slushed. Ugly ice settled on the roads, and it wasn’t fun to drive on. In the country, at least, some of the snow’s prettiness remained. The snow settled on windowsills and roofs, a thin blanket of pure white.
The café bustled with shoppers and locals, desperate to find a respite from the brisk wind and harsh air outside. Since I was early, I stood in a corner and scoped for a place to sit. Ten minutes later, a pair of students began packing up their things. I swooped in behind them and sat at their vacated table before they’d made it to the door.
A hawk-nosed woman sneered at me, evidently agitated I’d reached the table before her. “Are you going to use that other chair?”
With my toe, I drew the chair closer to the table. “Yes, I’m meeting someone. Sorry.”
I ordered coffee and a scone. When it arrived, I took off my gloves and wrapped my frigid hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into my skin. I inhaled the steam rising from the coffee and savored the scent of freshly ground beans. The scone came with complimentary clotted cream and jam. One of the reasons I had not bothered to return to San Diego was the city’s obvious lack of good scones. There was nothing more comforting than biting into a fluffy cloud of perfectly baked goodness.
My stomach twirled every time the bell over the door jingled and someone new came in. Not even the perfect scone could settle my nerves. At the bell’s next tinkle, a thin man in his sixties ducked to avoid bumping his head on the doorframe as he entered. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses that matched his slick hair, a thick denim workman’s coat, and heavy well-worn snow boots. He also carried a black document folder. His keen eyes methodically scanned the café, and when they reached me, I lifted a trembling hand. He nodded and wound his way toward me, steering clear of anyone else’s table despite his overwhelming height and the café’s business.
“Jacqueline?” he asked. “I’m Dermot Guffey.”
This was the man whose number
