Page 141 of When We Touch

When he returned to the town house that night, he frowned, noting that a letter had been left at his door.

There was no postmark on it.

When he opened it, he found only the words, “Catch me when you can,” written in a crude scrawl. They had been written in another letter that had made its way to the police. Originally, the letter had been sent to Mr. George Lusk, chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.

The letter had been accompanied by a piece of human kidney.

The killer knew him. Personally, Jamie thought.

And then he was seized with a sudden terror. He still had no proof. But Adrian Alexander was still at large. He had disappeared back into the bowels of the East End as if he had never existed.

He knew Jamie, and . . .

He turned the letter over. More words were written on the back of the paper.

I like the woods.

* * *

Maggie seized hold of the fire poker, and stood, listening. She knew that she had heard a rustling in the bushes.

But now . . .

Silence reigned.

For an endless amount of time, she simply stood her ground. Seconds passed, then minutes, and still, she stood perfectly still, listening.

Finally, she eased down the poker. Her nerves were rattled, she told herself. She was far away here. Far from the city. Jack was holding his reign of terror in London.

Still, as she walked into the kitchen, determined to make herself some tea, she took the fire poker with her.

The mullioned-glass windows that bordered the sink were closed. A gas lamp had been turned low, causing shadows to flicker on the walls. Outside, the autumn weather was growing crisp and chill. She shivered, and pumped up water, filling the kettle. As she set it over the stove and lit the flame, she wondered just what she was going to do. Jamie cared for her, she was certain. But since that day . . .

She had been here, and he had remained in London. Perhaps he had felt the pressure of his position. Perhaps he had felt that they needed time. Perhaps he didn’t mind at all having her as a lover, a mistress, and had no intention of anything further. That didn’t mean that he didn’t care. Nor did it mean that he wanted a life together.

And if not . . .

What was she going to do about the child? Not the beautiful little Ally, happily living here, beloved and adored. Her own child. She was almost positive. . .

She knew she could never, in a thousand years, give up a babe. And her heart bled with a greater concern for those poor women she had known, so often forced to the streets, and turning to gin as their only escape from unbearable lives.

Perhaps that was what suddenly gave her chills again. Thoughts of the East End . . .

She was staring at the stove, the fire poker leaning against it. She reached forward, picking it up.

And turned.

And he was there.

She didn’t know he had gotten into the kitchen, if he had made his way into the cellar and come silently up the stairs, or if he had jimmied the back lock.

It didn’t matter. He was there.

He had changed considerably once again, since they had met. His face appeared sucked in; the cheekbones were very prominent. His chin appeared sharp, and his hair had grown out more and fell in a strange, mousy way, in a single length covering a skull that seemed too large for his body. He had grown a shabby, untrimmed mustache, and his sunken cheeks looked all the worse for the scraggly growth of beard upon them.

His eyes burned with a peculiar glow.

He smiled. His teeth had gone very bad, and the stench of him seemed to suddenly reach her. She almost fell back. He smelled like something dead. As if he had been rolling in the carcasses of rotting animals.