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Chapter One

London

L eonora Spencer hurried through the busy corridor at Scotland Yard, determined to be invisible.

It was a risk for her to be within its walls, and in the middle of the day, at that.

But there had been no messenger boy hanging about, waiting to be hailed, near the Spring Street Morgue, and the deadline for unidentified corpse descriptions for The Police Gazette was noon sharp.

As the top of the hour had neared and her agitation increased, Leo determined she would simply have to deliver the latest description to Constable Elias Murray at the news office herself.

It wasn’t the constable whom she was attempting to avoid, even though a few months ago, he’d confessed to being the anonymous reporter who’d profiled her in The Illustrated Police News .

They’d dined out once while he’d pretended to have a romantic interest in her, but he’d only been gathering information for his article.

It had been disappointing to realize he’d had an ulterior motive, but she no longer carried a grudge against him.

Elias Murray hadn’t wounded her irrevocably.

Unlike someone else. A man she’d once trusted beyond measure.

However, discovering the identity of the Jane Doe lying in her uncle’s morgue took precedence over her own discomfort, so Leo had gathered her mettle and set out for the Metropolitan Police headquarters herself.

At the front desk, Constable Woodhouse greeted her with some surprise before allowing her to pass through to whichever part of the building she intended to go.

If the startled glances she received in the narrow corridor and stairwell were any evidence, her recent absence from the Yard had been noted.

Constable Murray shot to his feet when she knocked upon the open door to his cramped office. “Miss Spencer.” His lips gaped. “I…I didn’t expect to see you.”

Leo overlooked his disconcerted state and handed him the typed description: a woman in her late sixties, found on the mudflats under Westminster Bridge.

Her neatly trimmed nails, expensive silk petticoats, and velvet dress from a high-end boutique on Oxford Street had led Leo to believe that she was a woman whom someone, somewhere would be missing.

“There was no messenger boy today, or you wouldn’t have seen me,” she replied. It was honest, if somewhat rude. With Constable Murray, she no longer cared to be polite.

He took the typed description. “Thank you. You know, twelve bodies have been identified since we started running these descriptions in the Gazette .”

“That’s wonderful.” The positive outcome was worth a bit of awkwardness, she supposed.

With a glance toward the wall clock, the sensation of ants crawling up her legs jolted her.

Leo had been in the building for five whole minutes.

Every additional minute she remained was another in which she might be seen by the one person she’d vowed never to see or speak to again.

It was a vow she was determined to keep.

“Until the next John or Jane Doe then,” Leo said before retreating into the corridor.

Unfortunately, Constable Murray followed.

“Miss Spencer, I wanted to express to you again how sorry I am for my dishonesty. I think I convinced myself that ultimately the article would be of assistance to you, a way to shine some light on your stimulating work.” He still gripped the typed description of the Jane Doe in his hand, but in his nervousness, he had crumpled it.

“However, I’ve come to accept that I was merely doing a service for myself—and I genuinely regret it. ”

A few months ago, had she not been so disconcerted by Constable Murray’s unexpected interest in her, she might have guessed at the truth.

He’d expressed a far greater interest in newspaper reporting than in policing, which should have been a glaring clue.

However, her resentment toward him had long since fizzled out.

Even the handful of additional articles printed about her in various London newspapers, describing the role Leonora Spencer, ‘ the female morgue worker-turned-detective, ’ had played in solving a murder inquiry a few months ago—of which Constable Murray swore he had no hand in writing—had failed to truly distress her.

“Thank you, Constable. Let’s call a truce, shall we? Now, I really must go,” she said and again turned to leave.

The longer she lingered, the greater the chance that she would cross paths with a certain detective inspector she’d been sidestepping since early March, when she’d learned he wasn’t who he’d claimed to be for the sixteen years she’d known him.

Jasper Reid was not even his real name.

Because of her unusual memory, which captured images in minute detail and allowed her to return to them no matter how much time had passed, the sharp details never fading, Leo repeatedly had experienced the world-bending moment in which he’d confirmed her suspicion.

The blade of his betrayal slipped between her ribs and into her heart again and again, taking her breath away each time.

His given name was James. James Carter. His family—his real family—ran the notorious organized crime syndicate known as the East Rips.

And sixteen years ago, on the night Leo’s family had been brutally murdered in their home on Red Lion Street, he had been the boy who’d come into the darkened attic looking for her.

Jasper had been the shadowy figure she’d puzzled over ever since that night, half believing he was a figment of her imagination.

Because instead of killing her, he’d hidden her in a steamer trunk to save her life.

“You seem particularly rushed today,” Constable Murray observed.

Leo gritted her molars. He had followed her toward the stairs.

“Is it the date?” he asked.

The question was curious enough for her to stop and peer at him. “What is important about the thirtieth of May?”

“The way you’re rushing to leave, I presumed you knew about the warning Clan na Gael sent back in the autumn. We’re to be on alert today.”

Leo didn’t like the sound of that. Clan na Gael had come to power a few years ago when the Fenian Brotherhood, a militant political group seeking Irish independence from Britain, disbanded.

The two groups were essentially the same, however, and they, along with the Irish Republican Brotherhood, had been waging a dynamite war on London for the last decade, attempting to instill terror among the British.

In the previous year alone, there had been explosions at various government offices at Whitehall Place, at The Times , and at Paddington station, where dozens of people had been injured.

“What warning was this?” Leo asked.

He gave a small shrug. “Nothing to take very seriously, I’m sure. They threaten to bomb the city all the time but hardly ever carry out the blasts. I won’t trouble you further with it.” He tipped the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Spencer.”

Unsatisfied with his response, Leo watched him return to his office.

Men’s voices echoed up the stairs and along the corridor, giving her what felt like a nudge in the back.

She descended the stairs, her fingers clenched as she hoped to clear the building without seeing Jasper—or James, if that was how she should be thinking of him now.

That name felt entirely wrong though, as did the cinch of her stomach and the ache of her heart whenever she thought about him.

Paired with the boiling of her blood, the mixed emotions never ceased to confuse her.

He had tried to speak to her several times since that morning two months ago, when Leo let herself into his home on Charles Street.

She’d surreptitiously entered his bedroom to view the old scar on his chest, of which she’d caught a glimpse the night before, after Jasper had been injured in an explosion at a wallpaper factory.

Only after a sleepless night had Leo realized why the scar bothered her so deeply.

The shape of it perfectly matched the shape of the porcelain shard broken off from her old china doll’s leg, the very shard a young Leo had used to stab the mysterious boy who’d found her in the attic the night of the murders.

It was how she had received a pair of parallel scars on the palm of her right hand.

Jasper had followed her from his room after she’d stormed out, a bedsheet clutched around his waist—the only thing concealing the rest of his naked body. But Leo had not paid any attention to his undressed state. It was a minor scandal compared to what he had just admitted to her.

“Wait, Leo. Wait, please, let me explain.” He’d taken the stairs after her but abruptly stopped when she’d opened the front door.

For her to be seen leaving his house just past dawn would have spurred rumors.

For Jasper to potentially be seen in nothing but a bedsheet coming after her would cement Leo’s ruin.

She had not allowed him to explain, as he’d begged, and had slammed the door behind her.

Predictably, he’d come to her home on Duke Street later that morning, but she’d instructed her Uncle Claude to send him away.

The next day, Jasper had shown up at the morgue.

Leo told him that unless he left the premises right then, she’d upend a bucket collecting run-off from one of the autopsy tables all over his shoes.

When Jasper met her on the pavement outside her home the following day, he’d asked whether she would at least give him five minutes to hear him out. She’d held her temper and calmly stated, “ I cannot even look at you right now. Please, just give me space.”

Reluctantly, he’d nodded and left.

She hadn’t spoken to him since.

Not thinking about Jasper—or James—hadn’t been as easy as avoiding him. Unless she occupied her time with other things, all she found herself doing was thinking of his lies and all the unanswered questions that cluttered her brain but were too unwieldy to unpack.