Page 9 of From Hell

Arustle in the trees has my breathing racketing up a notch.

Get it together, Laine. Anyone could walk in on you right now.In response, my pulse thuds wildly in my ears, and I bite my bottom lip as I play back what my plan was through my mind. I can’t for the life of me remember.

Move the body.

Clear away the evidence.

It’s raining—light drizzle that has turned into a downpour. Wiping the moisture out of my eyes, I drag him from behind the trees. He’s heavier than I thought he would be, so I grab him by the ankles and heave with all my might, then roll the body into the open grave. By the time I’m finished, I’m panting. Blood is pouring from the stinging cut on my arm, and sweat is rolling down my face, mixing with the blood—his and mine. I felt it spray hot across my skin as I gutted him like a pig. Just the thought of it makes me anxious. I’m the worst murderer in the world. I must be. What if I get hepatitis or some other bodily fluid–transmitted disease?

I’m going to need some shots after this.

Once he’s hidden from view, I carefully arrange some of the foliage to conceal the burial site before returning to the scene to check that I haven’t missed anything. The rain has washed away most of the evidence, rendering it just like any other woodland path. Even though I’m a mess now and I’ve been planning this for weeks, luckily, there’s a storm tonight to help me conceal everything. I can only hope it’s enough.

A twig snaps, and suddenly, I’m on high alert.

I scan the trees, but all I see are dark shadows until lightning zaps across the indigo sky, irradiating everything.

A lone figure stands under the trees.

My heart seizes in my chest, nausea surging through my insides like a sickly poison. I forget to breathe. I forget to do anything until the adrenaline in my veins kicks in and I step toward the intruder, gripping the hilt of the knife so hard it digs into my palm. My nerves are shot, and fear has taken residence in my chest like an unwanted squatter. The scar across my throat aches as a dull reminder, chasing away whatever voice I had.

I’ll never be a victim again.

Fate must laugh at me because I slip and crash, a tangle of limbs I can’t control that is lost in the cold mud as the thunder bellows. My gaze wavers for a split second, and when I look back up, the phantom figure is gone.

Dread twists in my stomach as I try to pierce the pitch black with nothing but my eyes. Was there anyone there, or was I seeing things?

I feel lightheaded, and my breath is coming in short pants. I clench my fists, briefly closing my eyes to ride the dizziness assaulting me. Either the blood is making me nauseous or I have a panic attack coming on. Now is not the time to be losing it. Breathing slowly and deeply, I haul humid air into my lungs and let it out slowly through pursed lips. Taking deep breaths is the only thing I can do, but as I blink, stars collide in my vision and make the world spin and tilt.

Getting to my feet, I realize that I still have the murder weapon in my hand. I wash the blade off in a puddle, then wrap it in a tissue and bury it in my pocket. I’ll have to get rid of it later; right now, I should go home and put as many miles as possible between the dead man in the grave and me.

Half blinded by the rain, I traipse toward my car, careful not to run or draw attention to myself. Even without my heels, I slide all over the place. It’s a miracle I make it to my car without falling over again. Every so often, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I jerk my head around to look over my shoulder at the phantom I can feel following me.

Every nerve is screaming that he’s here, and he’s after me.

Nine years ago, when my would-be killer slashed at my throat with a thin blade and left me for dead, I only lived because someone disturbed him and found me in a ditch, clinging to dead leaves and gutter trash while barely breathing.

I still have nightmares.

But this is not one of those, and my almost killer isn’t stalking me in a dream world. The only good thing is that he doesn’t know who I am. The police assured me he wouldn’t come after me to finish the job if I changed my name and moved away.

For years, I’ve lived in fear he would.

However, I survived the Ripper of West London and lived to tell the tale. Few can say that. No one can but me, actually, even if I feel I’m already on the other side of death’s door. But that was before I became what I am now. Before he sent me more letters. Before I let the darkness in and became just like him—a monster.

If he’s here, watching me… Let him come.

After my third kill…

I’m ready.

4

RIPPER

Iwatch her shrouded by darkness and flashes of light. My keeper is right—she’s exquisite. I know as soon as she kills the man she lured here, carving up his flesh, bathing in his blood…

I want her.