When she’s passed out, and her breathing deepens, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear and mutter, “Don’t fall in love with a ripper. Your heart won’t survive.”
I don’t know who I’m warning, myself or Laine.
What the fuck are you doing, Jaxon?
Ignoring my inner critic, I let my eyes close for a few seconds as sleep pulls me under.
34
LAINE
Shock drags me awake. I sit up, panting in the darkness. I was dreaming again. Suffocating, being dragged down into an abyss. Fumbling for the light, I hit the switch, and a soft glow fills the room, chasing away the dreaded night.
It takes me a few seconds to register I’m not at home or in Jaxon’s spare room. I’m in his bed. I look around, my tongue darting out to moisten my cracked lips. How did I get here? I never sleep in his bed. Then it comes back to me. I was sleepwalking again.
Since there’s no glass beside the bed and my throat is parched, I stagger into the kitchen. Light spills through the blinds.Shit.It must be daytime. Does his room have blackout blinds? What time is it?
The clock on the counter says it’s 1 p.m. It’s way past the time I needed to be awake. I look around and catch a Post-it with words scrawled on it in neat cursive. It’s from Jaxon.
Headed to work. Don’t go anywhere. We’re out again tonight.
I’ll admit, for a doctor, he has easy-to-read handwriting. Though, the longer I stare at the words, the more they blur in front of me, twisting and morphing into a desperate chill, clawing through me, mutating like a horror uncontained.
The handwriting is familiar.
I never asked if he sent me the letters. Only if he was the one who gave me the scar.
“He’s not the Ripper,” I say to no one but myself, a ghost of a whisper. The handwriting being the same is just a coincidence. Lots of people write in neat cursive. Or if it was him, sending me those letters, it doesn’t mean he’s the Ripper. I just assumed…
A shiver coasts down my spine, but I chase it away, making coffee to distract myself. But the itch under my skin is back, the feeling that I’ve missed something important—a clue.
I can’t let this go.
It’ll help put my mind at rest if I had more evidence. Like the rest of his house, Jaxon’s bedroom is neat, borderline empty. His only paperwork is for the hospital and his pharmaceutical company in a briefcase. Defeated, I leave everything as I find it and head to his office, but it’s locked.
I try the handle again.
No, definitely locked.
Grabbing my phone from my bag, I call Sage.
There’s a muffled “Hello?” when it picks up.
“Sage, can you borrow your parents’ car and come get me?”
“Laine! Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”
I gnaw my lower lip. “At Jaxon’s.” I give her a brief update, and she promises to come and get me as soon as possible.
Half an hour later, she arrives in a sleek silver Bentley. Her eyes are full of curiosity as I get in the passenger seat, but she doesn’t pepper me with questions until we’re a good ten minutes from Jaxon’s house.
“So you think he’s the Ripper?”
“I need to compare the letters the Ripper sent me to this,” I wave the post-it in her peripheral vision. Unfortunately, the letters are in my cottage.
“But why would he say he’s protecting you, helping you, if he’s the one who tried to kill you?”
I don’t have an answer, so I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m missing something.”
