Away from the women, there was a shift. Aslan was still far more guarded than even after mugging him and finding him in a half-feral state … but he would actually look at Malachi.

Malachi wouldn’t believe him. There was no way he would believe the truth. Of course he wouldn’t. Aslan spent so much time lying to throw everyone else both off her trail and out of her path. Who would believe him, and about such a ludicrous sounding thing at that?

So, Nettie was ‘like a daughter’ to him. Was his father like a father to him, too? Fair enough: she was not his problem, then.

… How old was Nettie? She looked about his age, and he found himself searching out every little line, every indent in his skin like he was looking for tree rings. What was he, thirty?

“The Whitby Ripper used to be down the street from here,” Aslan answered.

Well, ‘answered’.

“He’s dead, now, but he was not the only one targeting nubile young women here.”

Here. As in right here, down the hall, to the left and then right here.

He glanced to the door, left open for propriety’s sake. Saw no one lurking, and so stepped too close for the mere sake of giving him water. Still was burning with the flirty ‘detective,’ and found himself alleviated by a lower priority of looking out for Nettie. He took Malachi’s jaw in his left hand, like he was going to bring him down for a kiss … and then pressed the lip of the glass to his mouth instead. Drifted his free hand down to catch Malachi’s wrist, guiding his hand to the stem of the cup.

“I followed your suggestion, Malachi,” he said, keeping his light voice low.

It didn’t work. All it did was make him ache with loneliness in addition to guilt. But that wouldn’t bolster his next sentence, accompanied by a brush of his fingers over Father Brennan’s Roman collar.

“Perhaps you should try mine.”