Capturing the Devil (Stalking Jack the Ripper #4)(82)

Honestly, I was growing more worried with each passing hour, too.

Purplish black shadows under my eyes gave away how little I’d been sleeping. Though I was exhausted each night, my mind never ceased. It was a constant wheel of tension. Nathaniel. Jack the Ripper. Miss Whitehall. His Grace, Lord Cresswell. Missing women. Thomas. Uncle. Each person brought on their own set of worries until I was sitting up in bed, gasping for breath.

“I believe we ought to set this aside for tomorrow,” Thomas said, his attention still fixed on my face. Knowing him, he probably read each of my thoughts before I even had them. “It’s getting late, and while you may not require beauty’s rest, I like to keep myself as pretty as possible.”

I nearly snorted. Sleep. As if I could tumble blissfully into the arms of rest when my world was utter chaos. I flipped to the next page of my brother’s

journal and hesitated. It was the only page that had been folded over on itself—

almost as if it were hiding.

Or marking the spot for someone to easily find.

“Audrey Rose?”

“Hmm?” I glanced up briefly, turning my attention straight back to the journal. A note scrawled in my brother’s hand stared back at me. It almost read like a poem, though it was only the same sentence written on different lines in different intervals.

A burning sensation gnawed at the pit of my stomach.

I am guilty

of many sins, though

murder is

not one of them.

I am guilty of many sins,

though murder is not one of them.

I am guilty of many sins, though murder is not one of them.

If this were true… I closed my eyes against the sudden feeling of the ceiling dropping down. I breathed in slowly and let it out. If I didn’t calm myself now, I’d experience those waking terrors again. But if Nathaniel was being honest…

“I said I’m turning in for the evening, Wadsworth. Would you care to join me?”

“Mmmh.” I tapped the end of my pen against the table; it was strange for my brother to have so many articles about missing women if he didn’t harm them. I still didn’t understand his role in this mess, but by his own hand, he hadn’t murdered anyone. Whether or not he could be believed was another story altogether. It might simply be another well-constructed mask he’d created to disguise who he truly was.

“I’ve decided to farm spiders. I think training them to dance to show tunes will bring in a hefty sum. It may also cure me of my phobia. Unless you think dancing roosters are better.”

I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, half listening to Thomas and half staring at the confession. The more I uncovered, the less I knew anything for certain.

“Once, I hung naked upside down from the rafters, pretending to be a bat.

Isn’t that interesting?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Wadsworth. I have a confession to make. It’s something I ought to have mentioned sooner. I am shamelessly addicted to reading romance novels. I may even shed a tear or two at their conclusion. What can I say? I’m a fool for a happy ending.”

“I know.” I pulled my attention from the journal and fought a smile. “Liza told me.”

“That scourge!” He feigned being upset, clearly pleased he’d wrested me from work. “She promised to not say a word.”

“Oh, not to worry, my friend. She more or less just showed me your secret stash under the bed. Ravished and Ravenous sounded like an interesting read.

Would you care to discuss it?”

A troublesome smile played over his lips. If I expected him to feel shy about his reading tastes, I was hopelessly mistaken. “I’d much prefer to show you how it ends.”

“Thomas,” I warned. He mimed locking his mouth and instead of tossing away his imaginary key, he placed it in his inside pocket, patting the front of his jacket. “What do you make of this? ‘I am guilty of many sins, though murder is not one of them.’”

“Your brother wrote that?” Thomas scratched the side of his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. Nathaniel seemed to be Jack the Ripper, especially when we confronted him that night in his laboratory. Since we’ve got more murders done by the same hand, and he is most certainly deceased, we now know that his involvement in the actual slayings was a lie. At least in part. Who knows what else he’s lied about?”

Frustrated, I returned to my work. I wasn’t sure how long had passed, perhaps only minutes, but a similarity finally caught my attention. I set my journal aside and searched the newspaper. There. Quite a few of the women in both London and Chicago were either off to work or inquiring after a job. It was a tiny connection, but it was the only one that might be worth following. I read over the article about the latest missing woman in Chicago.

Her last known whereabouts was exiting the train near the World’s Fair. I scribbled her information down, hating that there wasn’t more to do. I wanted to scour the streets, knocking on doors and demanding people take notice. These were daughters. Sisters. Friends. They were people who were loved and missed.

A few moments later, I found another missing notification. A Julia Smythe. She and her young daughter, Pearl, hadn’t been seen since Christmas Eve.

I scribbled another note. Thomas fell asleep at the table, arms sprawled out in front of him, snoring ever so slightly. Despite my work, I grinned.