For the past few months, Evelyn had been working a desk job at Wagner, but she was eager to get back in the field.
“Speaking of work,” I said, “I think I want to take the steps to become an actual P.I.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You’re the one who gave me the idea.” I set the new rice on the stove and lowered the heat. “I can take courses online and get a certification. I think I have a knack for it. I finally figured out who Bertha was, didn’t I?”
“You did. Though I’m still mad at you for drugging me that night and running off to confront a serial killer on your own.”
“You showed up anyway,” I reminded her.
Despite the dose of Benadryl I’d given Evelyn to go to sleep, she’d fought through her drowsiness and found her way to White’s Row. She was the one who had clocked Bertha so hard that the Ripper lost consciousness on contact. Two minutes later, the police showed up. Under Evelyn’s command, they arrested Bertha and drove me to the hospital. After a blood transfusion and a long row of stitches in my arm, I made my way back to the land of the living.
If it weren’t for Evelyn, I would have been the Ripper’s final victim. Bertha herself had been sentenced to several lifetimes in prison. Ironically, she never confessed to the crimes as she’d told me she would, but Investigator Baker and his team—with the help of my notes—collected enough evidence to put Bertha away forever. William Lewis’s and Rosie Brigham’s families had been informed, and so had Eira Kent. London was safe until the next copycat came around.
“I was almost too late.” Evelyn wagged her finger in my face. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”
“No promises.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to cooking. I leaned against the counter and watched her from behind, as I had gotten into the habit of doing lately. She seemed different than before the night I’d almost died. Her posture was stiffer, and sometimes, I caught a strange lilt in her voice when she spoke to me. I couldn’t help remembering what Bertha had said that night in the alleyway.
“Evelyn, you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”
She shook garam marsala into the pot. The lid of the jar popped off, and a load of spice fell out in a clump. She swore feverishly. “Yeah, of course. Why?”
“Everything’s okay at your job?”
“Everything’s great.”
“You sure you want to go back to being a bodyguard?” I asked. “What if you injure your shoulder again?”
She did not turn to face me, but her shoulders rose ever-so-slightly toward her ears. “Jack, I like my job. The reason we have such a great place to live is because of my job. If you’d rather live in a closet, I’ll quit.”
“No, no. Forget I asked.”
At last, she wiped her hands on a dish towel and pivoted to look at me. Nothing in her eyes suggested a lie. She was steady on her feet and relaxed in her stance. She simply looked like Evelyn, stalwart and strong, no matter the situation.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
I opened my mouth. I almost told her.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Just worried about you. That’s all.”
She playfully tugged on my hair. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re safe, Jack. That’s all that matters. Now, let’s order a pizza because I’ve completely ruined that dish. And Nadine called, by the way. We’re still on for lunch with her tomorrow, right?”
“Sure.”
Despite myself, unease grew in the pit of my stomach. As I reached for my phone to dial the pizza place, I watched Evelyn lift the heavy pot full of korma off the stove with her right hand.
Almost as if her shoulder had never been injured to begin with.
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