So, this was Whitechapel. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as I’d thought it would be. Well, impressive wasn’t the right word.

After spending weeks on end reading about Jack the Ripper, I’d imagined something a little more decrepit. A town where crime ran amuck and where officers were oblivious to their surroundings.

Instead, I found a quaint little town filled with brown stone buildings, pruned bushes, and relatively clean streets. I could hardly imagine this place in the 19^th century. Where had Mary Ann Nichols stood before she was brutally murdered? Where had Jack hidden when he was done with her?

I walked down Buck’s Row, searching for clues, but nothing caught my eye. It was just a regular old street. I stopped in front of a small alley and peered inside. Rain pelted against my umbrella as I stood there. The wind grew colder. A shiver ran down my spine.

Carefully, I stepped forward, approaching a flickering street lamp. Shadows danced on the walls, shapeshifting into creatures of the night. I paused, my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode out of my chest.

Stomp… stomp… stomp…

I froze, hearing footsteps beyond the darkness.

“H-Hello?” I called out softly, my voice dying as soon as it left my lips.

Who was there? Wasn’t this a dead-end street?

I took a few steps back, my heart racing even harder. It was almost like Jack himself was going to emerge from the shadows. Something caught the light, sending a ray of it into my eyes. I was momentarily blinded, shielding my face.

Stomp… stomp… stomp…

Whoever it was, they were getting closer.

I pressed myself against the wall, willing myself to melt into it – to disappear.

A cold, bone-chilling breeze rolled through the alley, lifting a discarded piece of newspaper. It flew into the air, swirling into a vortex before it settled by my feet. The rain came down harder, blurring the ink. Still, I could make out the crude sketch of some criminal – one that had yet to be caught – one that could be lurking in this alleyway…

Slowly, I edged toward the main street, my fingers clutching at the bricks behind me. My legs felt like they had turned to jelly.

Usually, I was so well composed. Stuff like this never really phased me. After all, I was a crime novelist, and studying criminals was what I did best. But something about this was different. I had never felt this cold before. It was like whatever was lurking in this alleyway was slowly sucking away my soul.

Ring! Ring!

I about jumped out of my skin at the sound before fumbling through my purse, trying to find my phone. My fingers shook, trying desperately to turn off the sound.

Finally, I managed to silence it.

Suddenly, a well-built man walked past me. He was as pale as a ghost. The lenses of his glasses were shattered, refracting the dim light from the lamppost. He carried a satchel on his hip with the Royal Mail insignia stamped on it. In his arms was a large parcel, delicately wrapped in brown paper.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, nodding his head in my direction. “Don’t stay out in the rain too long; you’ll catch something.” His accent was thick but understandable.

“I-I won’t,” I managed to answer, watching him disappear into the fading drizzle.

I shook my head. I had been terrified of a mailman.

Eventually, I edged out of the alley and continued down Buck’s Row. Once I was on Durward Street, I grabbed my phone. I was supposed to meet my old friend, Lela Brock, so we could talk about Jack the Ripper. She had been living in Whitechapel for over five years now, and she had offered to give me a tour of the place. If I had to guess, however, she’d be more interested in talking about Dicken’s Pickwick Papers. I’m pretty sure that’s why she moved here in the first place. I’d never seen someone so obsessed with an author before. She must have read his books ten times over.

Missed call from Heidi Cruz!

Hmm, so that’s who had called me. I hadn’t seen Heidi in years. Maybe I should take the opportunity to catch up with her.

Settling under a nearby awning, I dialed her number.

She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Heidi, you called?”

“Amelia!” Her sweet southern drawl came through the line. “I heard you were in London. Is it true?” she asked excitedly.

“I am. Doing some research for work. How have you been? How’s Hunter?”

“Oh, he’s doing well. He’ll be starting preschool come September.”

“He’s going to be a smart kid.”

“I hope so. I hope so.” I could almost picture Heidi nodding her head in that slow, deliberate manner. “Anyhow, would you like to drop by my house for dinner? I’m making jambalaya.”

“Jambalaya?” My stomach growled at the thought of her world-famous dish. It was to die for. I don’t know how she did it, but it was the best damn thing you’d ever taste in your entire life. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

“Fantastic! I’ll see you tonight around seven, then?”

“Sure. Just text me your address, and I’ll be there.”

“Alright. Later, hun.”

“Later.” I hung up the phone, already imagining that andouille sausage, those fresh tomatoes, the crisp onions… Dinner couldn’t come fast enough.