London. 1888. The reign of Jack the Ripper.

“Where do you keep his memories?”

“No!” she shouted. “No, I can’t!” She started shaking uncontrollably.

“You have to!” I told her. “It’s in there. Who you are is locked away with his memories. If we’re going to figure this out, I need to see those. No matter what.”

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?!” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how long I had to work to hide those memories away? If you let them out, I’ll have to live with them. Forever!“

“No,” I told her, standing firm. “You can’t run from this. This is who you are!”

“I don’t care!” She was borderline hysterical with fear. So much so that she struck me.

I looked at her. Her eyes were wide with fear. No, not merely fear. She was terrified!

“What…” my voice caught. “What did he do to you?” I stood there, not saying anymore. Waiting for her to make a final decision on this. I wouldn’t force it.

Tears started running down her face. She stood up, took my hand, and said, “I’ll show you.”