Page 60 of From Hell

“I’m fine.” I grind my jaw and slip into the leather interior.

It’s not Addison you should be concerned about.Thevoice seems to smile, intruding on my thoughts, making me well aware that I’ve let my guard down, allowing my weakness for her to show. My darkness is closing in, telling me everything.

The Ripper knows.

If she has that scar, I’m unsure how long I can keep him away from her, under control. It won’t be long. It’s only a matter of time before it comes for her again.

And it will come.

Soon.

23

LAINE

When Cash asked me to poke around Henry Wickham’s sprawling mansion in Bishopsgate, convincing his parents and subsequently me it was important to his case, I caved. I doubt there will be any clues as to who might have killed Henry after I supposedly did, but I couldn’t exactly say that to my cousin when he asked for my help. I couldn’t exactly tell him no, either.

Cash usually gets his way.

Since I wasn’t invited to the funeral service, I stand at the doorway of the church, watching the mourners weep over a sorry excuse for a man, and follow them to Henry’s house for the open wake.

Tree-lined lanes mark the ascent. The driveaway is packed with cars bumper to bumper, so I leave my car on the verge down one of the lanes and trudge through a field to a side gate entrance.

Oval shrubs and pyramid trees in a perfectly manicured garden shadow my approach. A four-string quartet plays on the lawn, and the vast glass doors in front of his house are open, the subdued party spilling onto the courtyard, floating around his parents, Mark and Tiff Wickham, with condolences hanging off their lips. A blonde girl in her early twenties, who must be Henry’s sister, Margot, hovers nearby with a composed face.

A queasy feeling settles in my stomach when a server approaches me and offers me a glass of champagne, and I take a mouthful of acidic bubbles.

I really shouldn’t be here.

I didn’t kill Henry, but it feels like I’m intruding on something private. Seeing him as a son and a brother is messing with my karma. The best thing I can do is find his office or bedroom soon, snoop enough around to appease Cash, and then leave. Thankfully, I have on my mother’s designer sunglasses that I stole from her bag because crying for a murderer and rapist isn’t something I can force.

On that thought, my hand closes on the handle of a blade in my pocket, reminding me that another letter arrived this morning from my stalker. I threw the flowers in the trash like I always do, but this time, there was a dull clang of metal against the side of the can. The brown paper tied around the stems had a miniature knife with a mother-of-pearl cross on the cover taped inside of it.

“Not long, little bird. I watch you often. Looking for me in the shadows. When we meet again, let’s make it a night to remember. Since you can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger, how about we even things out? Knives are better for carving up hearts, after all. This one is special, made just for you a century earlier.

Soon, little birdie.

Soon.

I don’t know why I kept the knife.

Cash looked at it and did an internet search, thus confirming that it is indeed a century-old, a Victorian stilleto-style blade called a prostitute’s dagger. Obviously, there’s an insult there.

I should have thrown it away, but something stopped me. It might have been the faded, stained cross that looked familiar, the pretty pearlescent grip that felt right in my hand, or the blade’s edges that had recently been sharpened. Whatever it was, the atrocious thing’s now in my pocket, a tenuous link connecting me to the monster behind the letters.

Ironically, it makes me feel safe.

The host of people gossiping about what might have happened to Henry continues as I move through the crowd. Everyone has turned out for the event of the year. Henry had a lot of admirers. I hear snippets of conversation about his demise—he pissed off the mafia, he slept with someone’s wife—nothing useful but interesting all the same.

I doubt his family wants to greet me officially, so I move away from the storm of people into the kitchen, which connects to the rest of the house.

Of all the people I’m expecting to see lounging against the kitchen counter, Jaxon isn’t one of them.

As bold as day, in a pristine black suit, white shirt, and black tie. A day of stubble graces his jaw and makes him look rugged but not unkempt. Stray, unwanted thoughts of what it would feel like to have his lips on mine burn me from the inside out. He’s too engrossed in his phone, running a hand through his hair, to notice me stalling at the door.

What should I do? Walk through quickly or retreat? I choose the latter and hurry the way I came, taking the stairs. It’s probably better to see if I can find something useful away from everyone else.

I haven’t seen or spoken to Jaxon since he arrived at my cottage that morning, arms laden with breakfast goods. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Whitechapel may have a population of 70,000, but it’s small enough that bumping into people you know and grew up with happens almost every day. And now that Jaxon is back in town, it feels suffocating.