HEN I WOKE AGAIN, IT WAS DAYLIGHT. I WAS uncomfortable. My stomach was itchy.
“You were trying to scratch at your stitches,” someone said. The voice was American, and very familiar.
I opened my eyes to find Stephen, Callum, and Boo were gone. In their place, I found my mother.
“You were trying to scratch at your stitches,” my mom said again. She was holding my hand.
“Where did the others go?” I asked. “Did you see them?”
“Others? No, honey. It’s just us. We got on the first train. We’ve been here since this morning.”
“What time is it now?”
“It’s around two in the afternoon.”
I desperately wanted to scratch at my stitches. She steadied my hand again.
“Dad’s getting a coffee,” she said. “Don’t worry. He’s here. We’re here now.”
My mom sounded so … Southern. So soft. So out of place. My mom was home. This was an English hospital. She made no sense in this context.
My dad joined us a minute later, bearing two steaming cups. He wore his slouchy dad jeans and Tulane sweatshirt. My dad never went out in the Tulane sweatshirt. They both looked like they had dressed in the middle of the night, in whatever they could find.
“Hot tea,” he said, holding up the cups. “It’s just wrong.”
I smiled a little. We were iced tea drinkers, all of us. We’d joked about how disgusting it would be to drink our tea hot, with milk. That is just not how we do it. We had iced tea with every meal. Unceasing rivers of iced tea, even for breakfast, even though I knew that unceasing rivers of iced tea will stain your teeth a fetching ecru color, like old lace. I liked mine disgustingly sweet, too—so extra dental care points there. Iced tea, my family …
“Dad,” I said.
He put down the cups and they both just stood there, looking upset. The only thing I could think was that this is what people must see at their own viewings, when they’re stuck in their coffins. All you can do is lie there while people stand over you and mourn. It was a little much to bear, and my memories were coming back faster and faster. There were things I needed to know—I needed updates.
“Can I see the news?” I asked.
I don’t think my mom loved the idea, but she swung the television over and got the remote out from where it was tucked on the side of the mattress. The news station was, predictably, running the Ripper story. The bold words at the bottom of the screen told me everything: RIPPER DIES IN THAMES. I got the gist of the story fairly quickly. Police had been tracking suspect … suspect spotted at the Wexford School, just blocks away from the Mary Kelly murder site from 1888. The school, the location of the fourth murder, was speculated to be the intended site of the last murder as well. Police intervened when suspect tried to break into building … suspect ran … suspect jumped into Thames … body pulled out of Thames by divers … evidence confirms suspect was involved in all murders … name not yet released … police confirm the terror is over.
“The police kept the details about what happened to you out of the press,” my father explained. “To protect you.”
They had done exactly as Stephen said—they’d made a story that people could handle. They’d even put a body in the water for the police to fish out. I watched the footage of the divers bringing it up.
I turned the television off, and my mom pushed it to the side.
“Rory,” she said, smoothing my hair back from my forehead, “whatever happened, you’re safe now. We’ll get you through this. Do you want to tell us about it now?”
I almost laughed.
“It’s just like the news said,” I replied.
That answer would hold water for a while—certainly not forever, but for a few days, while I recovered. I fluttered my eyes a bit and tried to look extra tired, just to steer them away.
“You’re supposed to stay here for a few more hours at least,” my dad said. “We have a hotel room for the night, where you can get some rest, then tomorrow we’ll all go to Bristol. You’re going to love the house.”
“Bristol?”
“Rory, you can’t stay here, not after this.”
“But it’s over,” I said.
“You need to be with us. We can’t …”
My mom gave a terse head shake, and my dad nodded and stopped talking. Silent communication. A united mental front. That was a bad sign.
“That’s for now,” my mom said carefully. “If you want to go home … we can do that. We don’t have to stay in England.”
“I want to stay,” I said.
Another silent communication—just a look this time. Silent communications meant that they were serious and it was a done deal. I was going to Bristol. There was no fighting this one, really. There was no way they’d let me out of their sight now, not after I’d been slashed open in the school bathroom. I would be watched carefully for a while, and if I appeared in any way bonkers because of this, we would be on a plane back to New Orleans in a minute and I would be in a psychologist’s office the minute after that.
Which was all really undesirable right now. England was my new home. England was where the squad was, where I was sane. This was all too complicated for me to figure out right now.
“Can I have another shot?” I asked. “It hurts.”
My mom hurried off to find someone. She returned with a new nurse, who gave me another injection into my IV. This was the last, she told me. I would be given some painkillers to take with me when I left.
I spent the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep and watching television with my parents. There were still a lot of Ripper roundups, but some stations had decided it was okay to start running non-Ripper-related programs. Normal life was taking over again on midday television—trashy talk shows, and antiques shows, and shows about cleaning. English soap operas I couldn’t understand. Endless commercials for car insurance and strangely seductive commercials for sausages.
Just after four, I saw two very familiar figures in the doorway. I knew they would come eventually. What I didn’t know was what to say to them. Their version of reality and mine had diverged. There was formal handshaking with my parents, then they came to the bedside and smiled slightly fearful smiles—the kind of look you give when you have absolutely no idea what to say.
“How do you feel?” Jazza asked.
“Itchy,” I said. “Kind of high.”
“Could be worse,” Jerome said, trying to smile.
My parents must have realized that my friends needed a minute to say whatever it was they wanted to say. They offered teas and coffees all around and excused themselves. Even after they were gone, the awkward silence reigned for a few moments.
“I need to apologize,” Jazza finally said. “Please let me.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For … well … it’s just … I didn’t … Well, I believed you, but …”
She collected herself and started again.
“The night of the murder, when you said you saw someone and I didn’t. For a while I thought you made it up, even when the police were around you last night. All along you were a witness—and then he came after you. I’m sorry. I’ll never … I’m sorry …”
For a second, I was tempted—I just wanted to spill the entire thing, start to end. But no. Mr. Thorpe was right. I couldn’t do that, ever.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I would have thought the same thing about me.”
“Classes are still canceled,” Jerome said. “But we were stuck there until they chased the news people away. It’s a circus. Wexford, site of the final Ripper attack …”
“Charlotte,” I said suddenly. “I forgot Charlotte. Is she okay?”
“Yes,” Jerome said. “She needed some stitches.”
“She’s acting like she was as hurt as you,” Jazza said in disgust.
Charlotte had been beaten over the head with a lamp by an invisible man. I was prepared to give her a pass.
“You’re famous,” Jerome said. “When you get back …”
Something in my expression made him stop.
“You’re not, are you?” he asked. “They’re taking you out of school, aren’t they?”
“Is Bristol nice?” I asked them.
Jerome exhaled in relief.
“It’s better than Louisiana,” he said. “That’s what I thought you were going to say. Bristol is reachable by train.”
Jazza had remained quiet through all of this. She took my hand, and she didn’t have to say a word. I knew exactly what she was thinking. It wouldn’t be the same, but I was safe. We were all safe. We’d survived the Ripper, all of us, and whatever happened now could be dealt with.
“There’s just one thing I wish,” Jazza said after a moment. “I wish I could have seen her get hit with that lamp.”