Breakfast was thankfully cut short when Booker declared he had business to attend to and offered to escort Frieda back to the Clocktower. Pouncing on the opportunity to get him alone, Frieda bid Trinket and Daphne farewell and sauntered down the street, her arm entangled tightly with his.

Trinket helped Daphne clean up the dishes before setting off to the city center to stock up on cleaning supplies. She was strictly running household errands. It had nothing to do with Booker being out with his old flame. She absolutely was not going out in hopes of catching up with them.

Sure you are.

Determined to prove the voices wrong, she made a beeline straight to the general store. It was slightly crowded, and the background chatter helped to distract her. All anyone could talk about were the corpses. The theories were as numerous as they were ridiculous.

"They sold their souls to the Devil," said a willowy young woman as she clutched an infant to her chest. "That's what those numbers mean. It's all the wicked deeds they did while still alive."

"I say it's a new ploy by the Mice to scare us all into submission," said a bony old man who was bent over like an overturned chair.

"What about our resident mad scientist?" asked an older woman with a face so stern it was liable to make a saint feel like a sinner.

"What about him?" asked the old man.

"He seems to be wrapped up in all these morbid goings-on," the stern woman said. "Wouldn't be surprised if it was his boredom that led him to these crimes. I know for a fact he's guilty of all sorts of awful things. Blackmail and the like."

"And he has taken up with that young maid of his," the willowy woman added nervously, looking as if she thought she might be struck down just for mentioning Booker's misdeeds.

"May the Lord have mercy on his soul for misleading such a young, naïve—"

The old man cleared his throat as Trinket passed them by on her way to the front counter. They all went silent. The willowy woman quickly looked away, but the stern woman met Trinket with a judgemental gaze that only a few months ago would have made her want to curl up into a ball and hide. But now, she simply returned the woman's stare with a fierce one of her own.

"Don't listen to them, Miss Trinket," Fidelia said as she cashed her out. "I know you and Mr. Larkin are good people."

Trinket gave her a handful of coins as she continued to glare at the stern woman from over her shoulder. "I wouldn't go so far as to say we're good, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"People who have enough time to gossip about the bad things that happen around here might need to reconsider their priorities," Fidelia said. "Perhaps pray about it."

She cast the stern woman a nasty look. The woman only responded with a huff as she turned up her nose.

Chuckling softly, Trinket placed her supplies into a small cloth bag and gave Fidelia a nod. "It wouldn't be Tinkerfall without the gossipers, now would it? Have a good day."

"You as well, Miss Trinket."

Ignoring the whispers coming from the disgruntled gossipers, Trinket headed outside and made her way home. As she walked down the street, avoiding puddles and keeping an eye out for Booker and Frieda, her thoughts wandered back to the corpses, which then led her to the map. Benedict was leading them to the slums, which made sense, considering the points Booker had brought up. But then why had she seen him in the Garden Block? What business did he have there?

She paused for a moment and glanced about the crowds, searching for the familiar dark glasses and tall stature. Hadn't Booker suggested that Benedict was watching them? Observing their progress in the game? Did that mean he was following her, too? Is that why he'd been in the suburbs? Had he been watching her apart from Booker? But why?

Taking a deep breath, she continued down Gainsborough, holding the bag of goods close to her chest. Why would someone as supposedly brilliant as Benedict be interested in stalking her? What interest could he have in her? Unless, perhaps, he was curious about the relationship she had with Booker. Could he be worried she was usurping his place in Booker's life?

She laughed under her breath. As if a genius would be jealous of her. It seemed absurd. But what other explanation could there be for his presence in the suburbs? Maybe this obsession of Booker's wasn't one-sided . . .

What was she saying? Of course it wasn't one-sided. Benedict had mutilated corpses and living humans to impress his old friend. He was clearly just as obsessed as Booker was.

As home loomed closer, Trinket was again plagued by those awful, selfish thoughts about keeping Benedict away from Booker. She still wasn't convinced that reuniting these two rather twisted friends was a good idea. Especially for Booker. And now that she had met Frieda, she feared all the more that Benedict would hurt Booker somehow. What if he was as manipulative and devious as the copper-haired toxicologist?

Slowing her pace as she approached the front door, Trinket turned her attention to the road ahead and looked past their sad neighborhood towards the old night district. The real St. Spittel.

Was Benedict there? Was he waiting, watching as they tortured themselves with this stupid game? Was he looking for the perfect moment to swoop in and steal Booker away?

She closed her eyes, trying to convince herself of how ridiculous she was being. But she was haunted by the image of a tearful Booker lying in his bed, admitting how empty his life had been when his old friend left him. Benedict wasn't good for Booker. He simply wasn't.

Opening her eyes, she turned on her heel and continued on into the abandoned night district, her chest tight with shame. She shouldn't be going behind Booker's back like this. She shouldn't be trying to work against him.

And yet her feet carried her further into St. Spittel.

She didn't often venture into this part of the slums. The last time she'd come here was when she was searching for Gin, terrified that Scales had made good on his threats concerning the urchin. Her stomach dropped at the memory of her panic that morning. If only she'd been able to keep Gin safe. To keep her out of this dangerous game, this race to find a madman.

The reminder of losing Gin urged her on, reaffirming her firm belief that Benedict would only bring more pain and ruin to Booker if the two were reunited. Still, the guilt weighed on her shoulders as she carefully scanned every passing hovel, looking for a sign of the tall, mysterious doctor. It would be better if she could sit down and discuss her concerns with Booker, but he was so emotional as of late. And anytime she hinted at the possibility that Benedict was perhaps not the good friend he seemed to think he was, Booker got defensive and snappy. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to believe that this man he so admired was, in fact, a twisted murderer with no respect for the lives of others.

As she came to a familiar building, her steps slowed to a near halt. She remembered this place. It's where she and Booker had lost the Wolf, when it had disappeared without a trace. Could this perhaps be where Benedict was hiding out? But where? The old house or shop or whatever it had been was nothing more than a skeleton of its former life. The walls were crumbling, the roof sagging, the windows cracking. There wasn't even a door.

Nevertheless, she stepped inside, her eyes taking in every inch of the sad place. It seemed different without all the snow. And in the daylight, it was easier to see little details of what it had looked like before it fell into ruin. There were scraps of wallpaper stubbornly clinging to the rotted walls, a bright, lime green with faded patterns of leaves and flowers. A worn throw rug lay hidden beneath a thick layer of mud and mold. She carefully nudged it aside with the toe of her boot, wondering if perhaps it was hiding a clue to Benedict's whereabouts. But all that lay underneath it were a number of insects and worms, which scurried away upon being uncovered.

Sighing, she gazed up at the ceiling, catching a glimpse of blue sky beyond the holes in the roof that seemed to have gotten bigger since she'd last been there. Based on the height of the ceiling, there must have been a second floor at some point, but years of neglect had destroyed any evidence of it.

She leaned against one of the more stable walls, taking another look about the place. It wasn't so long ago that she and Booker had sat in this very spot as he lamented losing the Wolf. The frustration. The anger. The desperation. It had been so plain and clear on his face. It was that night, and the one preceding it, when Booker truly began opening up to her, telling her about Benedict and his past with Frieda. It was then that he stopped hiding his emotions, letting her see his human side.

It was then that she realized how fragile this genius doctor really was.

Pushing away from the wall, she left the dilapidated building behind. If Booker hadn't found a trace of his friend here, there was no way she would. Still, maybe she could find a hint somewhere else in this godforsaken section of the city. If he was as clever as Booker, there were plenty of places for him to lurk and hide from the rest of society. Perhaps he used the entire district as his base. No one but street urchins wandered about these parts, so it would be perfect for a reclusive madman.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up."

Trinket froze, her heart skipping a beat when she heard a familiar voice. Her eyes darted about frantically, searching for a place to hide. But then a low growl came from a nearby alley, followed by a crash. Clutching her bag of cleaning supplies to her chest, she flattened herself against the wall of the nearest building and strained to hear more.

"I had to. I had to. You don't understand."

Another guttural cry and what sounded like the crunch of bone. A curse and a hiss, and then a harried pacing.

She should leave. She should turn around and leave now.

A soft sob. And then words that were nearly a whisper. "Char, I'm sorry."

Her breath caught in her throat, and without thinking, she inched to the edge of the building and peeked into the alley from which the voice was coming.

Scales was on the ground, his back against the wall nearest to her. His knuckles were bleeding as his gloveless hands covered his face, shoulders shaking with what seemed like repressed sobs.

The sight stunned her. Was this vicious, heartless thug actually crying? His crumpled form was so foreign as he sat stooped over. His walking stick lay forgotten beside him alongside his black leather gloves.

"I had to kill her," he whispered, his voice tight with emotions he was clearly trying to hold back. "You don't understand. I had to do it."

There was a long silence before he let out a groan and covered his head with his arms, curling up into a ball.

"Char, I'm sorry. . . . I know, I know. But what else could I do? I can't let it happen again."

More silence. Trinket stared in disbelief, knowing she should leave, but too shocked to even move.

A frustrated growl hissed through Scales' clenched teeth, and he grabbed for his walking stick. Her heart pounded, thinking he would come storming out and crash right into her. But instead, he threw the walking stick at the wall opposite him, and it clattered to the ground before rolling back, stopping at his toes.

"Why did you come back?"

She flinched, thinking he'd seen her. But he slumped over again, his elbows resting against his knees as he took a trembling breath.

"You're supposed to be dead," he whispered, the conflicting emotions in his voice absolutely heartbreaking. "You're supposed to be dead. I'm supposed to be alone. That's the whole reason I became this person. Because of you. Because of losing you. Why can't you leave me in peace?"

Who was he talking to? Did he suffer from the same condition she did?

"Char."

It came out as a whispered sob, and despite the fact that this was the same man who had brutally tortured Gin, Trinket felt a baffling impulse to comfort him.

"Char, why? Why?"

She should leave. Not only was this dangerous, it was wrong. She was intruding upon a private moment, and even if he was the man who had killed one of her dearest friends, she shouldn't be listening to this.

Just as she was about to back away, something grabbed her arm. She nearly let out a cry, but somehow managed to smother it as she turned to find Madison standing beside her, his eyes wide with terror. He tugged her away from the alley, and with one final glance at Scales, she followed after him, allowing him to guide her through the foreign neighborhood. When they were a safe distance from the emotionally distraught Mouse, Madison released an exasperated sigh.

"Miss Trinket, what were you thinking?" he exclaimed.

Pressing one hand against her stomach and the other to her head, she took a deep breath, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "I don't know. I just, I heard him and I . . . I don't know what came over me."

"You could've been killed."

She swallowed hard. "I know, I know, I just . . ." She took another deep breath and met Madison's concerned gaze with a smile. "Thank you for watching out for me, Madison."

He ran a hand down his face and raised his eyebrows. "Gin was right about you two. You're bound to get yourselves murdered if no one's looking out for you. Thought you were supposed to be the sensible one, though."

Laughing softly, she shook her head. "Booker's influence, I suppose. Although, believe it or not, he's become a bit more cautious as of late. Anyhow, thank you again for bringing me to my senses."

The little urchin took the bag of supplies from her and nodded towards the main street. "Come on, I'll see you back home. Wouldn't want you to wander into more trouble."

With a grateful smile, she allowed him to lead the way as she tried to sort out what she'd just seen. It seemed unreal. Impossible. But despite all the horrible things Scales had done, she had to remember that he was still human. He had a past, a life before he became the awful person he was today. She knew about his sister, even if she was uncertain about what had actually happened to her. Was that who Char was? Was Scales speaking to his deceased sister? And if so, what was she saying for him to react in such a manner? Was it similar to what Merrill had been saying to her?

All thoughts of dead siblings vanished as she and Madison neared the house and found another figure approaching from the opposite end of the street. Furrowing her brow, Trinket picked up her pace, meeting the stranger by the front steps.

"Good day, Miss Trinket," Jewkes said, tipping his bowler hat at her.

She almost didn't recognize him. This was the first time she'd seen him in civilian clothes. It had never dawned on her before that he wasn't one of the upper-class gentlemen who accompanied their wives into the market. Based on his simple trousers, worn vest, and stained shirt, he was a man of moderate means. Perhaps even less than moderate.

"Constable Jewkes, what brings you here?" she asked, still taken aback by his appearance.

Lifting his face to her, he offered a smile. His swollen black eye made her forget her manners as her mouth fell open in silent astonishment. "I have some good news for you and Larkin," he said, ignoring her reaction. "I trust he has a shovel or two at his disposal?"