18TH JANUARY 1889. MID-MORNING. FERIHA’S HOME. WITH @ferihas.
It should be a beautiful day. Perhaps it was one objectively, the freezing cold of the last few weeks having settled into something still cold yet manageable, London awakening to a dusting of snow as the sun rose in the sky every morning. But Andy didn’t see or feel any of it as he stood at the door of the Demir home, an envelope clutched in his hands and his cheeks flushed with the cold, unsure whether the blood that surged through his veins was cold with worry or hot with anger or a strange jumble of emotions he didn’t quite know how to take apart, let alone articulate.
The front door creaked open, warm, scented air escaping, and any other day, he would have smiled at the sight of the person in front of him. But as he looked down at Feriha Demir, he found that there was only one thing he could say, his voice hard yet disbelieving. Maybe, if she listened well enough, if she noticed well enough, hurt. “You lied to me.”
He could barely feel his hands as he made his way past her into the house and out of the cold, and as he walked in, he handed the envelope to her, not wanting it, or its contents, in his hands a minute longer. Because in them, emblazoned on his eyelids, were images of places familiar to Andy over months and years of traversing Whitechapel and learning its secret nooks and crannies: Feriha standing at the edge of the docks, her recognizable hat in her hands as she gazed off into the distance. Feriha seated in The Britannia, mid-conversation, a pendant winking at the base of her neck, the other person out of focus. Feriha laughing as she crossed the street, face upturned towards someone else. In most of them, excited, carefree, clearly unaware that she was being photographed. That someone, intentions unclear, was photographing her.
The East End hadn’t felt anything like home since the murders began, but today, Andy felt like he didn’t know Feriha, either. He couldn’t look at her as he tugged off his gloves, blowing warmth back into his hands. But then he finally came to a stop, turning towards her and gesturing towards the envelope. The evidence. “You said you would stay away from the East End, Feriha,” he said. He remembered it like it was yesterday—how frightened she’d been upon receiving the Ripper’s last letter, a dismembered finger included with the threat. How worried he had been for her. “You promised. So what on earth are those?” He exhaled, dark eyes meeting her own. “And who the hell took them?”