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.