She thought of the mortuary photos from the nineteenth century. “At least now we know how people felt in 1888.”

“Is that when Jack the Ripper was on the prowl?”

“A hundred twenty years ago. Five murders that year, and two more in the following years. Then he came to America. It’s all in the diary.”

“Yeah, the diary. I need to take that.”

“I hid it in the pantry.”

She opened the cabinet and moved the cleaning supplies out of the way, revealing the tin. Carefully she lifted it off the shelf. Casey pulled a large plastic evidence bag from his pocket and put the metal box inside the bag. He sealed the bag and labeled it with a felt-tip marker from the kitchen.

“Plastic isn’t the ideal environment for an old document,” she said. “Especially when it’s sealed.”

“It won’t be in plastic very long. It’s going straight to the crime lab. We have people there who know all about document handling.”

“I hope they know about old documents. This one is fragile. It’s a miracle it’s held up as well as it has.”

“You’re not the only expert,” he said grouchily. “They know what they’re doing. You said something about a note you received?”

“What?”

“A note on your windshield, something about the diary?”

“Oh, yes.” It had been part of her statement. “It’s in my study, at the back of the house.”

“I’ll get it. You wait here. If there’s a knock on the door, you come get me.”

“The note’s in the drawer of my desk,” she told him as he headed down the hall with the tin under one arm.

She returned to the living room, where she noticed that a light on her message machine was blinking. Could someone from the media have found out about her involvement in the case so soon? She pressed Play, her hand poised over the Erase button.

But the voice over the speakers didn’t belong to a reporter. It was a voice she thought she would never hear again.

“Hey, kiddo. Tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up. I’m on my way back from downtown. Told you I’d make amends for getting you mixed up with Harrison. Spent the afternoon going through the city archives. Those women all disappeared between 1908 and 1911, and guess what? Your great-grandpappy didn’t take possession of the house till 1912. So you’re in the clear. The original owner was a Mr. Henry Parkinson. He designed the place and built it, and I guess he made sure there was a cellar...”

The message continued, but Jennifer didn’t hear it.

Mr. Henry Parkinson. The man who built this house. A man who shared his last name with the medical examiner who’d inspected the bones in situ. Who’d come in to do it, even though it was his day off. Who’d been interested in her family history...and in Richard.

Parkinson, with his legs weakened by MS. Yet he could walk, climb the cellar stairs, maybe even run—with the awkward loping gait of the figure in the sweatshirt.

“No,” she whispered. “Impossible.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

She looked up and he was there, at the entrance to the hallway, with a gun in one hand and the metal box in the other. Standing erect, no braces on his legs.

The expression on his face was like nothing she’d ever seen before, a mask of glee and hatred.

“You,” she said, feeling stupid and confused.

“Me,” he agreed, much too cheerfully.

“But it can’t be...”

“Why not? Because I’m a cripple? You’d be surprised what a crip can do. Anyway, MS comes and goes. It’s in remission now. For the past few weeks I haven’t even needed the leg braces. I wore them for effect. To avoid any possible suspicion. Now I want you to reach into your pocket and take out your cell phone.”

“My phone?” She still couldn’t quite grasp it, couldn’t understand.

“Come on, Doctor. Take it out.”

The gun was trained on her. She couldn’t refuse. Fumbling in her pocket, she found the phone.

“Now toss it away. You won’t be needing it. There’ll be no more text messages from Abberline.”

“You’re Abberline,” she said, her mind working with molasses slowness as she tried to put it together.

“Of course I’m Abberline. I’ve been fascinated by the Ripper case my whole life. I participate in many online forums, and when I saw the new thread about Edward Hare, I knew you had posted it. Now throw the goddamned phone away.”

He was still smiling, always smiling, his face a frozen mask.

She pitched the phone into a corner, heard its distant clatter.

“Where’s Casey?” she asked.

“Unconscious. I brained him with that UV lamp of yours.”

Absurdly she thought she’d just replaced the lighting element and now it was probably broken again.

“I hid in the study,” he went on, “after I gained entrance to your house via the window. You really ought to fix that latch.”

“Yes. Yes, I should.” She was staring at the gun in his hand. Casey’s gun, she realized.

“Okay, now we’re going down into the cellar.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it down there. I think of it as a shrine to Henry Parkinson, formerly known as Edward Hare.”

She thought about running, but she could never get out of the room in time. He might not be a great shot, but at this range he wouldn’t miss.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked as she approached the pantry and the trapdoor.

“I told you, I like the cellar. It’s a sacred place to me.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, why Maura? And the others? Just...why?”

“Open the trapdoor.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“Some things are too precious to be shared.”

She knelt and lifted the door, exposing the flight of stairs that descended into the dark.

“The light bulb’s dead,” she said, then wished she had used some other word.

“I have a flashlight. Go down. I’ll be right behind you.”

Yes, she would go down. But he wouldn’t be behind her. If she let him follow her into the dark, she would never come up again. She would be left with the skeletons, just another cadaver under the stairs.

She lowered herself onto the staircase and took a step. Parkinson moved closer, still standing in the pantry. She descended two more steps and heard him shift his stance to follow.

Before his foot could find the top step, she pivoted and shoved out at him with both arms.

She caught him by surprise and knocked him backwards. His disease might be in remission, but his legs weren’t strong. They folded under him and he hit the floor with a yell. The gun came up, and she ducked, flinging the trapdoor shut.

She heard him throw himself across the floor, his fingers scrabbling at the trapdoor’s handle, but before he could open it, she slammed the dead bolt into place.

She hugged herself, enveloped in the cellar’s absolute black. On the other side, Parkinson shook the handle.

“This won’t stop me,” he said conversationally.

“They’ll know it was you,” she shouted up at him. “They’ll know you did it.”

“Not at all. They’ll assume it was your demented brother. I hardly think I’ve been wasting my time on this meticulous frame-up. I’ve got everybody thinking it’s him. Even you.”

Something large and heavy smacked against the trapdoor. It shuddered. The door itself was solid oak like the rest of the flooring, but the lock and hinges were old.

“There’s a phone down here,” she bluffed. “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

“No, you’re not. There’s no fucking phone.” He struck the door again. “I’ve been in the cellar, remember?”

Another impact rocked the door. A gritty rain of dirt and splinters showered her. The dead bolt jingled ominously, the screws coming loose.

She retreated down the stairs, working her way by feel. In the darkness she had no sense of distance. It was a small shock when her shoes touched the concrete floor.

One last crash, and he yanked the trapdoor open. He thumped onto the stairs, his figure in silhouette against the light from the pantry.