Page 5 of From Hell
I’ve always been a good girl, so breaking the law will forever feel alien to me. Just because I’m new to being bad, though, doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I’ve done my research. I chose this place because I know the camerasbreak downwhen the cops come around. So as long as no one recognizes me or notices what I just did, all is fine.
Catching my reflection in a mirror, I’m red-faced and flustered, the heat beneath my cheeks burning them bright to kingdom come. It could be the good old Asian glow I’ve inherited from my mother—one glass of wine is all it takes—or it could be the result of putting my hand in the cookie jar.
Then I remember Nola’s call. I open my phone and see she’s sent me a message with a link to a news article. Without thinking, I click to open it.
“I’m standing outside the abandoned warehouse where the killer has struck again. The mutilated body of a young female found this morning has yet to be identified…”
It’s a video, not an article.
Quickly, I mute it before the sound attracts attention. There’s been another murder on the outskirts of the city. It’s the same modus operandi as the killings in West London—body naked and bound, tortured, abused, organs missing, fingers burned off, and reproductive parts mutilated. It’s him, the Ripper. He’s back. It’s not a copycat like the police seem to think. Just the thought of him preying on her has ice running through my veins, so cold it burns everything else away.
He likes to put his victims through hell before he puts them out of their misery by slitting their throats open. He rapes and tortures them first, mutilating them beyond recognition. Anger flares in my chest. I hate feeling out of my depth and right now, it’s like I’m drowning.
But this is how I know what I’m doing is the right thing.
Taking down evil is a worthy cause.
Starting with the men I’m stalking.
Swiping my tongue over my dry lips, I pick up my glass of water from the bar, taking a cold sip to chase away the acidic taste building in my mouth.
“How about we just go back to my place?” Henry’s grating voice comes out of nowhere as heavy hands land on my shoulders, massaging them and making me jump in my seat.
I let out a breath.
Focus.
“I’ve got champagne chilling in the fridge,” Henry adds, his breath hot on my neck as he leans close.
My body instinctively curls in on itself. Ducking out of his grasp, I swivel in the chair so I’m facing Henry instead of having him at my unprotected back. I give him a wide smile, lashes all aflutter. “I’d rather go back to mine.”
When he isn’t convinced, I hesitate, but only for a beat. Then I’m straightening my spine, pulling my shoulders back, and brushing off any lingering dread ghosting over me. I uncross my legs so his gaze is obliged to slide to my amped-up cleavage, then down to my exposed thighs. It’s a move I learned from my favorite femme fatale movie, but it never fails to work.
Henry’s eyes gradually glaze over as he devours me with his gaze. Then he leans in, close enough to overpower me with his cloying, spicy aftershave. In one beast-like motion, he gropes my leg, palm squeezing all the way to my crotch like he owns the flesh beneath it. Disgust rises in my stomach like bile. I clamp my legs closed, but I’m not quick enough. The tips of his fingers probe the silken strip of my panties before I can stop him.
“Not here,” I rush out, cheeks hot to the touch.
Henry lets out a nasty chuckle, rubbing up and down my thighs. “That’s quite a grip. Is your pussy just as tight?”
My stomach churns.
If he were any other guy, I would punch his damn lights out and tell him to go fuck himself. But I can’t do that to him. I have to do this for the girls he hurts in cold blood. For me, even though he wasn’t the one who dragged me backward into the courtyard’s canopy of trees, hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. Who slashed at my neck with a knife…
He’s not the Ripper. Only God knows who the Ripper is, and He’s not talking to me since I cheated death.
But Henry is still a monster. He still hurts and abuses women, and gets away with it. And somehow, both the Ripper and Henry are connected to Berners House. I know it, even if the police don’t.
Ihaveto do this. No one else will.
Jessy Burman, Holly Finsbrook, Dina Martin, Lydia Miles,Cathy Black…andMolly Hathaway.I repeat the names of the most recent missing or assaulted girls Henry and his friends are blamed for like a mantra in my head, as I do every day—a stark reminder that I have no choice but to do this. Molly was my friend, and I brought her to that frat party at Berners House. It’s my fault she’s missing, presumed dead.
Keeping my legs glued together as much as possible, I curl my lips, giving him a cool smile. I say nothing. If I open my mouth to speak, whatever comes out won’t be nice.
Henry grins, taking my silence for acceptance. He then motions to the barman with his other hand, beckoning him over like you would a child. Lance looks fit to explode.
“A bottle of champagne from your top shelf for the road,” Henry calls out, oblivious to the death stare he’s getting.
Lance scowls and strolls over slowly, taking his time approaching us from the other end of the bar. I can’t help but stiffen. I don’t want or need an audience for some dickhead pawing me like he has a right to, especially when Henry turns and grins, squeezing my thigh until it hurts. “You’d better fucking put out after this.”