Page 145 of When We Touch

Her ankle was free. Desperate for breath, she kicked her way to the surface. Gasping and screaming, she clawed her way to the embankment.

She saw a man rising from the water, and she backed along the damp, cold earth. “No!”

“Maggie!”

That voice . . .

“Jamie?”

She hadn’t the strength left, but she found it. She came to her feet, and leapt forward, into his arms. Then she drew away.

“Alexander?” she said desperately.

“He’s dead.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m certain,”

She looked around his shoulder, and she saw him. Blood oozed from the slash against his throat. He was in the water, caught between two boulders in the stream. Eyes open, he stared up unseeingly at the night sky.

“Dead?” she whispered again.

“Dead,” he promised her.

She leaned against him, fell against him. Her knees gave. He held her. He lifted her chin, and searched out her eyes. “Maggie, was he . . . Jack the Ripper?”

She started to shake. She couldn’t laugh, and she couldn’t cry.

“Maggie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I wonder if . . . if we’ll ever know!”

She couldn’t walk. He picked her up in his arms.

“Jamie?”

“Yes?”

“I love you,” she said, and touched his face, and waited.

“I love you, too,” he told her, and said no more, but made his way back to the cottage in the woods.

Epilogue

There were two books written about the whole affair.

Mireau’s book, unpublished I thought, was far superior to the one which was published just days after we had returned to London. Of course, reading Mireau’s, I was pleased. I had done everything in my power to save Arianna, I had seen to it that Prince Eddy had been defended in the press with the facts of his whereabouts, and I might well have met with the infamous and savage butcher who had all but brought London to its knees.

But in the other story . . .

I had blatantly murdered Charles. I had attacked a true spiritualist, a man of God, who had come to warn others of what was about to happen in the city. I had seduced anyone who had come my way, and consorted in the worst dens of iniquity in the city to seek out those that I might harm further. I had lured an innocent man to his death, and brought about the destruction of seven young men who had only needed jobs, and were seeking a way to go straight. I had gone to a home where my stepdaughter was working, and I had poisoned her, preferring to kill her myself rather than let her lead a life I didn’t control. I was a horrible, wicked, cruel stepmother!

Of course, my name wasn’t actually in it, not at all. It had been very cleverly written. Since I had been the object of scandal several times, there was no doubting, though, just whom was meant by the Lady Evelyn Quinn. And, of course, the gorgeous stepdaughter, Lady Bianca. Cecilia had been the one to first bring the book to my attention, and naturally, it had infuriated me. Especially since I had just returned to the city, and gotten to spend a single blissful night with Jamie before he had gone on to meet with the authorities . . . and sent a message that he would not be returning that night. At first, I understood. There hadn’t been another murder, but the last had been a crescendo, and the city remained in an uproar, as it would for weeks, months, and even years to come. At that time, though, we could only tell what we knew, what had been said.

And speculate. I realized that until the day I died, unless a madman was caught in the act at a future date, I would never really know.

Had the man been the heinous killer?