Page 107 of The Business of Blood

“Inspector,” I started.

He held up a hand, and I noted the ink stains on his fingers. “I’ve come to accept that if a prostitute is murdered in Whitechapel, there’s nothing I can do to keep you from the investigation, short of locking you up and losing the key.”

Had he allowed me to speak first, that’s exactly what he’d be able to do. Except now, I had a reason to be silent. A prostitute. Dead. In Whitechapel.

“I’ve not read of anything new in the paper,” I said breathlessly.

“I’m unsure how long we’ll be able to keep it from the press.” His lip lifted in a semblance of a snarl.

“What does your sister have to do with this?” I asked, a flare of panic chilling my skin at the same time my palms bloomed with sweat.

“Did she not mention?”

I made a negative gesture. I’d never received a letter, but I’d be damned if I allowed Croft that information before I gleaned what I could from him.

“She knew the victim.” His gaze shifted to the floorboards, then he studied the hemmed cuffs of his trousers as his hard jaw worked over something that looked very much like shame. “From earlier days, when the only law we knew was the law of the streets.”

I leaned forward so I could hear him properly over the thundering of my heart. Had another woman lost a dear friend to Jack? And why would Croft’s sister call for my help?

Grief had blanketed my fate with doubt and self-recrimination, but there was no time for that anymore. All thoughts of confession dissipated into the London fog as I leaned forward and captured that flinty green glare with mine.

“Tell me everything.”

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