"Make it quick," Jewkes snapped.

Trinket drew in a sharp breath. Images flashed through her mind, memories of all the torture and abuse the Lipstick Woman had heaped upon her in Elysium.

The ice baths.

The drugs.

The chains.

The Jar.

Booker must have realized what was happening, as he kept a firm hold on her hand still tucked into the crook of his arm. His touch reassured her, and she forced herself to concentrate on the corpse in front of her. She was dead. There was no way she could hurt her now. Or ever again.

It was so strange to see her lying on that table, rigid and devoid of any life. Was it not only a week ago that she had towered over her? She'd always held such an air of authority, able to command fear and obedience with a single glare. Now here she was, so small and powerless in death, her beady eyes wide with terror, the same sort of terror she had delighted in inflicting upon the poor inmates in Elysium. The same terror she had inflicted on her . . .

"Trinket?" Booker said softly, pulling her from her thoughts.

She gave her head a light shake. Right. They were here for a reason. She needed to do her job. Even though she hated looking at the wicked woman, she had to inspect her for clues.

Gashes. There were gashes all over her body, like the ones on Mrs. Wotton. However, these were somehow different. Mrs. Wotton's wounds had been clean and precise. These were jagged and random. Her eyes didn't appear to be bleeding, and her lips weren't swollen. And there were no bruises around her neck or any rope burns on her wrists.

Trinket glanced up at Booker who was still examining the body, his forehead creased in concentration. A stolen look at Jewkes found him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, sporting a disapproving frown as he watched Booker carefully.

Friend indeed. Booker had a funny idea about who his friends were.

Booker straightened his back, and she only then realized how far over the corpse he had stooped in his examination. "Well, Jewkes, I thank you for your kind assistance this night," he said, pasting on a mocking smile.

Jewkes rolled his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall without a word. As he led them out of the mortuary, Trinket couldn't help but take one last look at the corpse. Even from here she could see those crumbs. She swallowed hard. That horrible woman couldn't hurt her anymore. She couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

The Lipstick Woman was dead.

Like someone else we know . . .

As they left the dark station and headed into the still night, Jewkes stood in the doorway and lifted his lip in a snarl. "I hope this is the last time I hear from you, Larkin."

"Oh, my dear Jewkes, you know you'll never be rid of me," Booker said with a tip of his hat.

Jewkes scoffed and slammed the door closed.

The humor fell from Booker's face as he turned Trinket back towards the street and away from the station. "She was the one looking for you," he said.

"Yes."

"I'm sure it was rather shocking to see her."

She let out a long breath. "Yes, it was."

A shock and a relief. As much as she hated to admit it, part of her had rejoiced at seeing that sloppy woman lying dead in a giant icebox. After all she had done to her—to so many others—why did she deserve anything better than death?

Why do you deserve anything better?

"Well, I know we didn't stay long, but what did you notice?" Booker asked.

Trinket pushed the voices and memories aside. "Her gashes were similar to Mrs. Wotton's, except they were more . . . reckless."

"Reckless how?"

"Mrs. Wotton's wounds were very clean, like she had been sliced up with a knife wielded by a human hand. The cuts on this woman were far less tidy. They were jagged and torn, almost as if—"

"They were from an animal."

She nodded. "Like dog bites."

"Or wolf bites."

"And she didn't have any of the bruising Mrs. Wotton had or the sores on her wrists. The deaths appear similar from a distance, but up close, it looks like someone was trying to replicate a Wolf attack on Mrs. Wotton."

"Ah-ha!"

Trinket started a bit at Booker's triumphant cry. He had practically leapt into the air and clicked his heels.

"I was right!" he said. "They don't have the Wolf. They're killing people to make it look as though they have it so as to send the city into a panic."

"What about this woman's death?"

"A happy coincidence. I'm sure if there are any more Wolf-related deaths, the Mice will be quick to claim responsibility for them, too."

"Perhaps we should take this slowly. I mean, there does seem to be a difference in the wounds. But other than that, we don't have any solid proof."

"My gut and your keen observations are proof enough."

Her heart swelled once more at his high regard for her abilities. "So where do we go from here? How do we prove the Mice are bluffing?"

"Really, there's no way to do it other than to catch the Wolf ourselves. We can tell people they don't have it and explain our reasoning, but it won't matter. The Mice will just kill anyone who questions them in order to keep the lie going."

"Meaning you?"

"If I make a big deal of it, yes, they'll likely try. But they won't succeed. No one else has. I have a great survival rate up to this point."

She raised her eyebrows. "How many people have tried to kill you?"

"Oh, far too many to count. You're the most recent one, though."

He teased her with a wink, but the mention of her violent past twisted her stomach into knots. "Won't they be mad at you when you catch it and prove beyond a doubt that they lied?" she asked, pressing a hand to her belly to ease the pain.

"Oh yes, they'll be furious."

"And you'll become their target."

"Most certainly."

"You said before that even you know better than to get involved with the Mice. So why do it now?"

His expression turned stone cold. "Because now they're meddling with something that was meant for me."

Meant for him? Was he referring to the man he was convinced created the Wolf? This rival and friend? It was becoming very clear that whatever relationship he had with this madman went back much further than she could imagine.

Who was he?

"Why is it so blasted cold?" Booker complained.

"Because it's the middle of winter and we're out in the dead of night."

"Thank goodness the house is warm. I'd hate to be sleeping in the streets tonight."

Trinket thought for a moment. "Do you think Gin will be all right?"

"Gin? Yes, of course. She's clever. She knows how to stay warm on nights colder than this."

"Why do you not have her live with you?"

"Pardon?"

"She's obviously valuable to you. You trust her. And she seems to adore you."

"I don't know that she adores me," he said, though he looked pleased by the suggestion.

"You have extra rooms. Why not have her stay with you?"

He sighed. "Gin is valuable to me because of the position she is in. She lives on the streets amongst urchins and crooks and thugs. She's good at blending in, at going unnoticed. That's how she obtains the very best information for me. Having her live with me would take all of that away."

Trinket stopped and pulled away from him. He turned slowly to face her, his shoulders sagging as though he anticipated her rage. She tried to keep her expression void of any emotion, but her hands were balled into fists as she gripped her skirts.

"You would rather see a little girl freeze out in the slums than lose a precious informant?" she asked.

He inhaled slowly, his eyes looking heavenward as if to beg for strength and took a step towards her. "It's not as simple as that, Trinket. Even if I did ask her to come live with me, she'd refuse. Not only that, she'd be insulted."

She clenched her teeth. "How do you know that?"

"Because I know Gin. I've known her a lot longer than you have, I'll remind you."

She couldn't argue with that.

"She knows that I value her skills," he went on. "So if I were to suggest that she come live with me away from every source of juicy gossip and scandalous rumor, she'd be livid. It would be the equivalent of telling her I no longer have any use for her."

He took several more steps towards her until he was standing in front of her.

"You know that I am a man who looks to benefit himself," he said quietly. "You knew that when you became my assistant. I'm not a good man, Trinket. I can't lie to you and say that I am."

She dared to meet his eyes. It was true. He wasn't a good man. He did good things, but not for the right reasons. There was no denying his rather selfish and reckless behavior.

But then the memory of a tiny mechanical bird flying out of Gin's hand rose in her mind. The look of pure delight and wonder on the urchin's face as she watched the toy soar over the crowds in the city center. What benefit had he received in making her such a gift? Perhaps if she pointed that out to him, he would be able to make up some excuse.

He needed to practice his craft.

He needed to keep his informants happy.

He had been bored.

But she knew that wasn't true.

Gazing up into his cognac eyes that were nearly as intoxicating as the liquor they resembled, she tried to use her observational skills to find a clue as to why he was like this. Why he pretended to be uncaring and heartless. Why he hid the affection he had for others.

There had to be a reason.

And she was eager to know what it was.

"Well," she finally said, feeling like she had been staring into his eyes for an eternity, "I suppose good people don't usually spend their nights in mortuaries. Unless they're police officers."

A slow smile spread over his face. "And as you can see from Jewkes, not all coppers are good."

"Perhaps, in the end, there are no good people in this world."

Booker caught her hand, tucking it once more into the crook of his arm as he led her towards home. The warmth of his touch spread from her hand to the rest of her frozen body, reaching deep down into her heart.

"You may be onto something there, my dear," he said as he pulled her closer.