A Buried Past Read online

  To keep things light, Evelyn signed us up for an “Oxford in Films” tour, during which the guide showed us to various locations around campus that had been used as settings in movies. Most notably, Duke Humphrey’s Library had once served as the Hogwarts library in the Harry Potter films. Evelyn, who was less familiar with the campus and more of a Potterhead than I was, gasped and gawked at the architecture. I mostly tagged along in silence. The book smell in the old libraries reminded me of my mother.

  “I need coffee,” I told Evelyn at the tour’s end. All the walking, along with the emotional toll of reminiscence, had made me tired.

  The rain thickened as Evelyn linked her arm through mine and pulled me across the street. Everyone outside quickened their pace and bowed their heads, as if we all had to pay our respects to some unknown weather god. Droplets landed on the back of my neck, but I didn’t pull up my hood to block them. The cold water did well to clear my head.

  “I’ll be in the loo,” Evelyn announced inside. “Get me a tea, will you?”

  “Do you need help in there?”

  “I’ll manage,” she called over her shoulder. “Tea, extra strong.”

  I placed our orders then wandered to the connected bookstore to wait for Evelyn. The shop was a bit touristy, but I didn’t mind. I browsed through finger puppets of famous literary figures and philosophers, random knickknacks that solely existed to amuse you while you worked at your desk, and picture books for young dreamers like I had once been. There were even fake diplomas for sale. As I debated buying one, a tall woman with impossibly high cheekbones and sharp, dark eyebrows came into the library. My memory skipped, as if I should recognize the woman.

  “I hate when they don’t have towels in the loo.” Evelyn emerged from the washroom, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. “I realize it’s better for the environment not to waste the paper, but I use them to open the door on my way out. You know how many people don’t wash their hands? Jack, are you listening?”

  I wrenched my gaze from the familiar woman as she ventured deep into the library and disappeared. “Yeah, there were no towels.”

  She stood next to the window and gazed out at the buckets of rain falling from the sky. “Guess we’re stuck here for a while. Let’s find a desk.”

  We picked up our drinks and settled down at an empty desk on the first floor of the library. We weren’t the only people damp enough to take refuge from the rain. Several soggy students plodded in as well. Evelyn pulled out the novel she’d brought with her, reclined, and lost herself in words. I hadn’t thought to bring a book of my own, so I got up to peruse the library.

  I didn’t purposely seek out the title that caught my eye. I’d wandered into the psychology section by accident, and the book jumped out at me like a jack-in-the-box. The Mind of a Killer: An Inside Look at the Most Terrifying Murderers in History.

  I stared at the book’s spine but didn’t reach for it. I hadn’t heard of the author before, and I certainly hadn’t heard of the book before. My fingers itched to pull back the first page and check the table of contents. What were the chances the author had examined the Ripper’s ghastly motives?

  I thought of my promise to Evelyn: that I would drop my obsession with William Lewis’s murder while I was helping her get on her feet. Technically, I hadn’t promised to stop researching the original Ripper. I grabbed the book and flipped it open. There it was: an entire forty-page chapter dedicated to what might have been going on in the Ripper’s head. I sat on the floor to read it and hoped Evelyn wouldn’t come looking for me too soon.

  A few minutes later, I discovered The Mind of a Killer didn’t have any new insight to offer me. The author, a gentleman named Oliver B. Alcott, more or less stated what I already knew. The Ripper, like most serial killers, had a singular method of fulfilling his sick desires. The severity of his victims’ mutilations grew worse as his fantasies escalated, until he carved up the last body with such ferocity and his needs were supposedly satisfied. Alcott theorized that the Whitechapel murders may have stopped because the Ripper achieved his final goal. Personally, I didn’t agree with him. I always thought the Ripper relocated and continued killing elsewhere.

  As I made to close the book, my fingertips sensed indentations on the pages. I lifted the book to the light. If I angled it properly, I could see the letters pressed into the page. Someone had been taking notes on this chapter, and the pressure of the pen had left markings.

  “Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil I can borrow?” I asked a student near me. She helpfully tore paper from her notebook and handed me a pencil. I thanked her, placed the paper over the book’s margins, and carefully shaded across it. The words appeared white against the gray pencil markings. I turned the paper to read them. They did not form full sentences. Moreover, they didn’t make much sense at all.

  “There you are.”

  I jumped at the sound of Evelyn’s voice and knocked over my coffee. Fortunately, there wasn’t much left of it to spill across the library rug.

  Evelyn fixed me with suspicious eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing.” I closed the book and hid it behind my back.

  She held out her good hand. “Give it here.”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “I didn’t expect to.”

  When I showed her the title, she let out a groan.

  “You never said I had to stop reading about the old Ripper cases,” I reminded her. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

  “I suppose you found a loophole,” she grumbled.

  I bounced on my toes. “Yeah, but…”

  She waited for the rest of my sentence. “What is it?”

  “Okay, I know I said I wouldn’t think about it anymore, but look at this!” I showed Evelyn the piece of paper. “I picked up etchings from the margins of the Ripper chapter, and someone has been—”

  “Etchings?”

  “That’s what it’s called when you shade the paper like this,” I explained, exasperated. “Look what this person wrote in the margins.”

  Evelyn squinted down her nose to make out the faint letters. “Jack’s a killer, not a murderer,” she read off in a halting voice. “I’m a murderer, not a killer. My modus operandi. What the hell is this, slam poetry?”

  “‘I’m a murderer,’” I repeated, pointing at the words on the page.

  “Don’t say that so loudly.”

  “Someone wrote it.” Why wasn’t she grasping this concept? “Someone read the chapter on the Ripper and confessed to being a murderer in the margins. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?”

  Evelyn flipped through the book. “First of all, there’s nothing actually written in the margins. Secondly, anyone could have done that. People go bonkers during exam week. They probably had to write an essay on the Ripper and wanted to kill someone. Perfectly natural.”

  “You do realize what you just said, right?”

  “I meant that stress levels during certain times of the semester can skyrocket.” She slammed the book shut and shoved it into an empty space on the shelf, which was not where it belonged. “I’m sure someone got overwhelmed and wrote in their journal about it.”

  “That’s your theory?” I asked. “A stressed student needed research for a paper on the Ripper, got overwhelmed, and decided to make a creepy journal entry instead?”

  “And what’s yours?” Evelyn challenged.

  “I think someone wanted to know exactly what the Ripper was thinking when he committed those murders,” I replied. “That way, they could replicate them as authentically as possible.”

  “Need I remind you we’re two hours away from Whitechapel?”

  “Does it matter?” I opened the book again and snapped a picture of the page the possible suspect had been reading while writing their so-called diary entry. “It’s too big of a coincidence to ignore.”

  “We need to get you out of here.” Evelyn took me by the collar of my coat and dragged me out of the row as one would a mi
sbehaving child. Students peered at us curiously or chuckled as I scrambled to regain my footing under Evelyn’s influence. “I thought coming to Oxford would be a good distraction, but apparently getting you out of Whitechapel wasn’t the answer. Why can’t we do anything fun?”

  “This is fun for me,” I countered, shaking off Evelyn’s grip as we emerged from the shelves. “I wasn’t purposely looking for that book. I happened upon it.”

  “Just like you weren’t looking for those etchings?”

  “I wasn’t!”

  Evelyn’s frustration with me manifested in the downward turn of her lips and the crinkled crow’s feet I could have sworn weren’t there when I’d arrived in London a few days ago. This time, she didn’t bother hiding her feelings from me. She glanced outside. “The rain’s letting up. I’m exhausted. Let’s head home.”

  The rain had not let up at all. It came down in thick, gray sheets. Those who rushed through the streets, raising umbrellas or books overhead to protect as much as possible, appeared and disappeared into the rain, as if the code that kept the artificial reality around Oxford intact had gotten a bug in it.

  I did not want to step outside, walk all the way back to our car, and drive two hours to Whitechapel soaking wet. I also did not want to upset Evelyn further, so as she led me toward the door, I took a deep breath and braced myself for the cold rain.

  “Jacqueline?” asked a warm, familiar voice. “Jacqueline Frye?”

  Grateful for the opportunity to turn away from the inclement weather, I spun on my heel to face the voice. The woman I’d seen earlier—the one that had jogged my memory—stood across from me. She held a cup of tea in one hand and a textbook in the other. She wore, appropriately, a light-blue Oxford shirt, a tweed jacket, and jeans, the perfect combination of casual and professional. Now that I could see more than her profile, I immediately recognized her.

  “Miss Nadine?”

  She smiled and hugged me, careful to keep her tea level so it didn’t spill. “I thought that was you, Jack! I think you can drop the ‘Miss’ now that you’re an adult.”

  I couldn’t help but beam at the older woman. “Old habits and all that.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were in America.”

  “I live there,” I clarified. “But I’m here helping out a friend. Evelyn?”

  Evelyn came forward, temporarily rearranging her expression to suspend her beef with me and smile widely at Nadine. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. You are?”

  “Nadine Patel,” she replied. “I was a friend of Jack’s mother. We taught here together before she—” Her eyes flickered toward me. “Before the accident.”

  I decided to glaze over the awkward moment. “Nadine used to babysit me when Mom had classes. We go way back.”

  “Yes, I’ve known this one since she was in diapers.” Nadine checked her watch—she wore a beautiful gold-faced one with a leather band that matched her wise, professorial appearance—and grimaced. “Listen, I’ve got to teach a class in ten minutes, but we must catch up. Where are staying?”

  “Whitechapel.”

  “I’ll be in Windsor tomorrow visiting an old friend,” Nadine said. “Would you care to meet for tea? Is that too much of a drive for you?”

  “No,” I said hurriedly, though the mention of the town made my pulse quicken. “I would love to.”

  “Good. How’s half one? I should be finished by then.”

  I glanced at Evelyn, realizing I’d made plans prior to asking if she would need me tomorrow. But she nodded and smiled, so I told Nadine, “I’ll be there.”

  Nadine kissed my cheek and, her hands full, pressed her back to the library door to open it. As she ducked her head against the rain, which had blessedly slowed to a drizzle, my cheeks dropped my smile onto the floor.

  “Windsor, eh?” Evelyn asked. “You sure you’re going to be all right with that?”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  6

  The breeze caught a handful of leaves from the ground and made them whirl in the air. My mother laughed as they landed in her hair, bright spots of orange and red radiant against her thick, dark tresses. She spun on the spot, arms thrown wide to either side and her head tipped back to meet the burning blue sky. She twirled until she toppled over and landed in the faded yellow grass. The earth was slightly damp beneath her, but she paid no mind to the bits of moist dirt that stuck to the elbows of her sweater.

  “Your turn, Jackie,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “You try!”

  Virginia Water Lake sparkled in the distance. A cyclist rode past us on the trail, the gears of his bike buzzing like a swarm of mosquitoes. A couple steered their stroller to the side to let him pass. Closer, a fat bulldog with a smushed face gamboled over to its owner, and two children argued over a shared cup of hot chocolate.

  Mama drummed her fingers lightly on the back of my hands. “Come on, Jackie. Don’t be scared.”

  Bracing myself on her shoulders, I stumbled to my feet, determined to show her I could do what she asked of me. I steadied myself, let my arms fan out as she had done, and stepped around in a tight circle. Seconds later, my small feet tangled up beneath me, and I fell. As the rough grass scraped my knees, I let out a howl of anguish.

  The sky darkened. The cyclist and the children and the bulldog vanished. Clouds formed at an impossible rate overhead, shifting and whirling into menacing faces of gods with no mercy. I couldn’t move from the ground, rooted to the earth through my hands and knees.

  Mama strolled beneath a tree, oblivious to the rolling thunder. Though her legs moved, she stayed in one spot, eyes twinkling, mouth trapped in a laugh. She didn’t see the figure made of darkness creep up behind her.

  “Mama!” I screamed. Prickly vines wound around my hands. The harder I yanked to free myself, the tighter they clenched. Thorns pricked my skin, drawing small dots of blood. “Mama, look out!”

  Mama smiled and laughed. The dark, hooded figure sprung upon her. Lightning flashed, and the blade of his knife glistened beneath it. He wrenched Mama to the ground and stabbed her—one, twice, three times—as if he liked the sucking sound of her organs against the blade. Mama laughed on, blood pouring from her wounds.

  “Mama!” I cried, the world blurring through my tears. “Please!”

  Mama turned toward me. “Don’t be scared, Jackie,” she said. Blood bubbled between her lips. Her eyes were blank and lifeless. “Don’t be scared.”

  I woke with a yelp. Evelyn rolled out of slumber and the bed, landing on her feet with her good hand raised. She drew a baton from a hidden corner of the bedroom and lifted the weapon above her head, ready to whack whatever threat was nearby.

  “Who was it?” she demanded in a curt whisper. “Where’d they go?”

  I curled up, wrapped my arms around my legs, and rested my forehead on my knees. “No one broke in, Ev. I had a nightmare. That’s all.”

  Evelyn lowered the baton. “Are you all right?”

  Cold sweat coated my neck and chest. I felt shaky all over. The images of the nightmare slipped away, as they often did, but the sight of my mother, choking on her own blood as she told me not to be scared, stuck in my head.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Liar.” She crawled back into bed and crossed her legs to sit in front of me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I squeezed her fingers, taking strength from her warm calloused hand. “I was with my mother in the park. Then I saw him kill her.”

  “You weren’t there,” Evelyn reminded me in a gentle tone. “It wasn’t real.”

  “My mother’s death was.”

  She brushed wavy strands of hair from my face. “I know you’re still hurting after all these years. Being back here must be bringing up a lot of memories. Plus seeing that woman yesterday—I’m not so sure you should meet her today, Jack. It’s not good for you.”

  I inhaled through my nose and forcefully exhaled through my mouth, breathing out all the bad memor
ies. “I can’t be scared of the past. Nadine helped raised me. I’m not going to pass up the chance to catch up with her.”

  “You know her well, right?” Evelyn asked, suspicious as always. “You don’t think she wants something from you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Money?”

  I snorted. “She’d have to extort someone else. I have seven dollars in my savings account.”

  Evelyn rocked backward and lay across the foot of the bed. She propped herself up on the good shoulder. “The timing seemed weird. You’ve visited me several times, and no one has ever recognized you before.”

  “Now who’s drawing unwarranted conclusions?” I asked her. “We’ve always stayed in London before. My mom’s friends live in different parts of the country. We only ran into Nadine because she works at Oxford.”

  “If you say so.” When she saw me roll my eyes, she added, “I don’t want you to get hurt, okay? I remember what it was like after your mom died. If you went back to that…” Her eyes glazed over as she trailed off.

  My mother’s murder had derailed a great deal of my life plans. University went out the window, as did my relationship with my father. At first, I lost myself in a sea of grief. No amount of time would mend the rip in my heart. I became a ghost of the person I once was, to the point where Evelyn came over each day to make sure I had fed myself and showered and not done anything rash to join my mother in the afterlife. That was the ultimate reason I moved to the States. Too much of England reminded me of her.

  “I won’t go back,” I assured Evelyn. “That was ten years ago. I’ve grown so much since then. I wouldn’t recognize my eighteen-year-old self.” I patted her space on the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

  She sprang to her feet. “No way. I’m wide awake, and it’s your fault. You owe me fried potatoes, and make sure they’re—”

  “Extra crispy,” I finished, sliding out of bed. “I know.”

  An hour later, the sun peeked over the Thames and sprinkled pale yellow light across the kitchen. Evelyn and I sat at the counter, talking about lighthearted things and making fun plans that didn’t involve past heartache. She wanted to take me to a cricket game. Until she was injured, she had been playing with a local women’s club, and she was dying to introduce me to her teammates. Leftover hash browns—or as Evelyn called them, fried potatoes—waited for someone to eat them in the frying pan. I’d given in and made eggs and bacon too, and we spent the early hours of the morning with tired eyes and full bellies.