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• Comfortable around blood.
• Likely hatred toward women.
• Issues with women. Mum issues potentially. The last item gives me pause. For I possessed an abundance of mother issues, yet somehow I arrived at the conclusion that one should protect the vulnerable rather than slaughter those who resembled the woman who hurt them.
Curious.
Snatching my crystal tumbler of whiskey, I down the rest of the liquid and wipe my lips on my sleeve, then stare at the item within my hand. Stating out loud to myself, “I’m going to need more of you to deal with this.” I gesture with my other hand at the large murder board, then take an exhausted exhale.
Crossing the room to my small beverage cart, I pour a copious amount of drink to refill my glass, still contemplating.
My thoughts feel as though they are pacing slowly but the images and notes I’ve collected race across my vision. Glancing at my desk, I see the stacks of mail piled high.
I really should tend to that.
My schedule has been thwarted with my new obsession with the Ripper. I turn around to assess from across the room, leaning my back against the wall, clutching my tumbler and resting the back of my head.
Thursday… Thursday… Thursday… Surely not. My gaze darts toward the calendar. That’s it.
Rushing to the calendar next to my notations, a realization dawns on me. He has a schedule showing a pattern of selective Thursdays of the month. I rush over to the newspapers sprawled across the floor and view the past Thursdays articles. Nothing reads of a new killing; thus, this coming Thursday might be a potential night of another heinous crime.
“You’re predictable,” I state aloud while pointing at the large article hanging in the middle of the investigation board. “Thank bloody God.”
A grin spreads across my face for my accomplishment.
Thursday has finally arrived. Tonight is my opportunity to deliver justice.
My trusted sickle rests against my back, concealed beneath my coat. A small-caliber pistol sits within the holster beneath my arm, and a length of thin rope is wound securely around my belt.
I have also acquired a new item. A balaclava. Baklava? No. That is a pastry. Balaclava. A black knitted mask intended to conceal my face and grant me the appearance of a threatening shadow rather than an unusually enthusiastic man wandering the streets with a sickle. Very practical.
There are only two established houses of pleasure within Lockham. Jack has already slaughtered Delphi at Le Havre, and another woman was discovered near the Blue Lagoon last week.
According to the articles I have collected, he seldom returns to the same establishment twice. Which means he may not enter either building tonight. He may wait for one of the women to leave. The realization settles unpleasantly within my stomach.
The streets between Le Havre and the Blue Lagoon are narrow, poorly lit, and connected by enough alleys to conceal an army of demons. A woman walking home alone could disappear within seconds.
Therefore, I shall wait where the two routes intersect. Simple. Brilliant, even.
I wait patiently, lurking in the shadows like a devil. By midnight, I am beginning to question the brilliance of it.
Rain slips beneath the collar of my coat. My boots are damp, my fingers numb, and the balaclava possesses an unfortunate tendency to creep upward into my eyes, the knitting irritating my lower lid eyelashes.
I tug it down once more. Off in the distance, something catches my attention. A nearby tabby cat watches from beneath an overturned cart.
“Do not judge me,” I whisper, narrowing my gaze at the feline that is now glaring at me.
The cat continues judging me. Then comes the harrowing scream. Every discomfort vanishes as I sprint toward the sound.
A woman staggers from the mouth of an alley, one hand clutched against her throat. Blood seeps between her fingers, but she is upright.
Alive. Behind her, a dark figure turns and disappears into the shadows.
“You there!” I shout, admittedly an uninspired declaration, but there is little time for eloquence. I continue to close the distance between us.
The figure glances over his shoulder. Even beneath the brim of his hat, I see the flash of pale skin, but I am unable to identify the details of his face. Jack. I know it is Jack. I can feel it like a golden thread sewn by The Fates.
I draw my pistol but cannot risk firing with the woman between us. Instead, I sprint past her and enter the alley. He lets out an irritated grunt, while shoving past a drunk passerby.
