Whitechapel - Sex Stories

Whitechapel

... it because was the one she'd worn last time she'd come to see him, a conversation he'd relived over and over again with almost pathological consistency ever since. Although it didn't relieve him of the desire to punch the young inspector right in his smug, smiling face, Rees had to admit that he was right. He didn't know for sure that Rose was dead--only that she'd apparently gone, and taken nothing with her. Even the bloodstain didn't necessarily mean anything. Just because he couldn't imagine a series of events that would lead her to run away in the middle of the night didn't mean that there wasn't one. But no. Rose would never leave as long as Thomas still needed help. Stubbornness alone would have stopped her even if nothing else did. If she was gone, it was because something had forced her. But what that was seemed poised to become a mystery as harsh and inscrutable as any other written in the mud of the East End streets. An older fellow sat on a bench nearby, reading a newspaper. In jocular but distracted tones he said, "Awful this latest one.“ He indicated the front page. "Do you think we'll ever find out who this killer is?" Rees answered in the faraway voice of a man who has received a mortal injury, and knows it. "I know exactly who the killer is." The man with the newspaper looked up, surprised. Rees shook his head. "It's all of us." *** "I'm not a butcher, I'm not a Yid, nor yet a foreign skipper. But I'm your own light-hearted friend, yours truly: -Jack the Ripper." Contents of a letter mailed to Scotland Yard, autmun of 1889. Author unknown.