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thought it foolish. Now I understood. Realizing the very thing you love most could be taken away without warning made you clutch onto it. “I believe I acted first, Thomas.”

He stepped back, wrinkling his brow, then laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not at all sorry about kissing you. I’m talking about the deranged lunatic holding a knife to your throat.”

“Oh, that.” I waved a hand, feigning nonchalance. “He’s lucky you had the foresight of preparing me this evening.”

Thomas’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. “You’re truly magnificent. Smashing bones and fighting off attackers in abandoned alleys.”

“It’s too bad,” I said. “Your reputation will be completely ruined once people discover I saved you.”

“Destroy it for all I care.” Thomas laughed outright. “You can save me again if it ends with a kiss.”

“Did you know?” I asked, turning serious. “About the cadavers?”

His jaw clenched. Thomas carefully took my hand, motioning for us to keep moving. “Unfortunately, I did not. Obviously, the bodies aren’t unclaimed as Oliver says. I do not appreciate being lied to or researching on someone’s family member without permission. No advancement in science is worth causing pain.”

I let go a sigh I was holding. It was all I needed to hear. Thomas was most certainly not involved in the Ripper crimes. He was interested in saving lives, not ending them.

“What will you do about Oliver?” I asked. “He cannot continue lying about the bodies. I doubt you’re the only one he’s done this to.”

“Oh, I’ll be having words with him, believe me.” Thomas pulled me close. “I despise having put you in unnecessary danger.”

“We are stalking Jack the Ripper,” I pointed out. “I’m already putting us in danger.”

Thomas shook his head, mirth replacing tension, but didn’t say more.

Intent on leaving the East End, we trudged across Dorset Street, our attention scattered from the attack, when I nearly walked straight into a hansom cab. I stopped, staring in disbelief. Incredibly, the night took a larger turn for the worse. A snake coiled around my torso, striking at my innards.

A scratch ran down the side of the cab in an unmistakable M, a feature I was very familiar with, as I’d made it myself last week. It was my identification of a murderer.

This carriage belonged to my father.

TWENTY-SIX

BLACK MARY

MILLER’S COURT,

WHITECHAPEL

9 NOVEMBER 1888

I grabbed on to Thomas’s overcoat, nodding toward the carriage. Where was the coachman? It would be odd if Father took it himself, leading my mind to stray in a thousand directions. Was it possible we’d had it all wrong? Could John the coachman be responsible for the killings? Or maybe Father had Blackburn take him here. I shook my head, clearing it. Nothing made sense.

“If I were committing a murder,” I mused aloud, “why park my carriage outside the scene of the crime? Hardly seems logical.”

“Jack the Ripper, whoever he truly is, doesn’t appear to be thinking logically, Wadsworth. The man just ingested a human organ. Perhaps he feels invincible, and rightly so; thus far he’s gotten away with his crimes.”

I glanced up the street: nothing but lodging homes and litter joined us from our shadowy hiding place. Thankfully, our attackers hadn’t reappeared and I doubted they would. I was fairly certain I’d broken his foot. I would’ve felt bad were it not for their malicious assault on us.

Most of the lights were off given the late hour, all except for the lodging house directly in front of Father’s carriage. Mumbled voices and bright light poured from two windows facing us. One of them was cracked, allowing the sound to travel into the night.

I pointed to two figures walking back and forth. Making out features was impossible, but the broad set to one of them most certainly looked like Father.

“Come,” I said, dragging Thomas into the alley across the street. “Should we fetch the police? Or give it more time?”

Thomas studied the layout of the alley, carriage, and building where the two figures were apparently just talking. The way he scanned the area around us was methodical and exact. After a minute, he shook his head. “Whoever’s in there isn’t arguing. I say we see what happens.”

Something inside me wanted to rush across the street, pound on the door, and scream at Father for all the wrong he’d done, and all the wretched things he still sought to do, and cry for the guilt he was now laying on my shoulders.


Tags: Kerri Maniscalco Stalking Jack the Ripper Fantasy