Page 72 of If Looks Could Kill

When the house is dark and the McNamaras are safely snoring, Pearl slips out the back door and goes for a walk.

After tonight, nothing will be the same.

Possibly, after tonight, nothing at all will be . For her.

She takes a last stroll through the city to bid the world goodbye. To remember her life. To cradle in her hands the memories that aren’t polluted by tragedy.

There’s more there than she would have expected. Childhood, and running through the meadows with her brother, Lars, and searching for toads and turtles. Her family, at the supper table, when it was four of them and food less scarce. Her mother, smiling. Her father, laughing.

It hurts less to remember them now. Is that because her own death draws near?

Little things. Little moments. Little gifts. Little sparks of spontaneous laughter.

No one’s innocence is allowed to remain. The conduit from childhood to adulthood is fraught with wounding and disillusionment for everyone. But it ought not to have gone as hers did. Too much was taken, and far too soon.

She knows she’s not unique. She knows the world is full of pain like hers.

Someone should still have to pay for that.

Whether she wakes up tomorrow morning or not, the Pearl she was will die tonight.

Is she ready? Has she practiced enough? Was it enough to stun the men on the train, and the brothel client in the alley, and Johnny Leone at his saloon? Do they add up to proof that she’s ready for this fight?

They will have to.

She can’t kill the Ripper. Not with her gaze. But if she can stun him, it will give her time to find another means of finishing the job.

A Salvation Army girl she may have been, but she grew up on a farm. She knows well how to cut a life short. He is not the only butcher here, and she will not lose her nerve.

Her footsteps bring her back to Tenth Street, and her feet grow heavy. Maybe just one more loop. She hates for this walk to end. But why prolong it? Her hands and face are bitter cold.

She pauses at the corner to take in the size of the crowd of Ripper watchers clustered before the building. It’s dwindled. The cold must be sending people home to their beds.

Is that… Tabitha’s bartender?

And just beyond him, Tabitha herself ?

She takes a step closer to make sure.

It’s her. Her Salvation Army roommate, staring up at the windows of the house where even now the Ripper sleeps.

Pearl is astonished. She can’t believe it.

They can’t be here just for a chance to gawk at the Whitechapel killer. It can’t be that.

She backs away to hide herself behind the building on the corner.

Tabitha is here, Pearl knows, hoping to find her. How she knew to come is a mystery. A perplexing and troubling one. But there’s nothing Pearl can do to solve it.

Thank you, Tabitha, for trying to help. Go home now.

Nothing changes.

I forgive you, Tabitha, for leaving last night, Pearl thinks with a smile. Now go home.

As if following instructions, Tabitha turns to Mike and says something. Hand in hand, the two of them turn and leave. Tabitha keeps craning her neck for one last glance. Just in case.

Pearl smiles to herself. How about that for timing? Or had some part of Tabitha responded to Pearl? Wouldn’t that be something.

Tabitha must be counted among the memories to be held dear.

Her path now clear, Pearl circles around to the back alley without attracting notice from the dwindling bunch parked outside. She enters the back door using the key she has pilfered from the landlady. Such a criminal she’s becoming!

The key’s hiding place is an empty tin of soap flakes in the pantry.

Pearl lowers it inside quietly, then makes her way carefully up the stairs.

They love to creak, these old staircases, but Pearl takes each step experimentally.

On the second floor, she hears sounds of snoring from the bedroom.

She manages to reach her floor without waking her mistress.

She tiptoes along the hall to her room and opens the door. Her skin prickles. Something isn’t right. Something is here that shouldn’t be.

Slowly, carefully, she peers around the door, but the room is as dark as coal.

Her senses are taut, straining. Something is wrong. She takes one step farther in, just enough to reach the bedside table where the lamp and matches are.

Huge arms grab her and clamp a sweet-smelling cloth over her face. Her eyes roll back in her head, and the darkness takes control.