They continued to stare at the dead woman lying before them, neither willing to move or speak. Trinket's eyes followed the trail of stitches, her thoughts running wild as she considered all the horrifying possibilities. Knowing the kind of madman Benedict was, there was a very good chance this poor woman had been alive when she ended up in his possession. Had he vivisected her like he had the frogs in his youth? Is that what the frogs meant?

She dared not voice her suspicions. Besides, based on Booker's hard stare, she wouldn't be surprised if the thought had already occurred to him.

"So, should we . . ." Trinket trailed off, unsure of what to do next.

Shaking his head slightly, Booker refocused his gaze and glanced up at her. "Right. Yes, well, at least some of the work has been done for us."

With a deep breath, he positioned his scalpel over the stitches, starting at the woman's right shoulder, and slowly severed the threads. They snapped and unraveled as the blade glided along the pre-cut flesh. Once the skin was free, he set aside the scalpel and opened up the body cavity.

The ribs were already cracked, some even gone. But beside that, the insides appeared untouched. No missing organs or misplaced veins. The pristine condition of the woman's interior only convinced Trinket all the more that Benedict had tortured this woman to death in his pursuit of knowledge. But what would have been the point? How did this play a part in the game? Benedict may have been mad, but his madness was logical. There had to be more to this than brutality.

"No sign of internal injury," Booker mumbled as he poked at the viscera.

"Aside from the ribs?" Trinket pointed out.

"Autopsy casualties." He heaved a sigh and repositioned his scalpel. "I should check the stomach for any leftover contents."

As he cut the organ out and placed it in a dish beside his tools, Trinket tilted her head curiously. "Are we really concerned about how she died?"

"Like I said, we can't let any detail slip by our notice," he snapped irritably. "Even if, to the untrained eye, it seems insignificant."

Pressing her lips into a tight line, she turned her eyes back to the open cavity and tried to ignore his brusque tone. He was just frustrated. It was nothing personal. Although it irked her all the same. However, her frustration quickly dissipated as something inside the woman's body caught her attention. With the stomach out of the way, an object beneath what she believed was the liver became visible. It didn't look like a body part. It was metallic. And cylindrical.

"Booker," she said, not daring to take her eyes away from this new discovery for fear she'd lose sight of it.

He glanced over his shoulder, and when he noticed her intense stare, he abandoned the stomach and joined her. "What?" he asked, following her gaze.

She pointed to the liver, the metallic object still in view. "There's something under there. I think it's a container of some sort."

He finally saw what she was referring to, and his eyes went wide. Grabbing the scalpel, he carefully cut the liver away from the body. As he pulled the organ out, the metallic object came with it. Booker placed it on the cart, flipping it upside down to reveal that the strange container was sewn onto one of the lobes of the liver.

Trinket gripped his arm as she inhaled sharply. "That would explain the autopsy cuts," she said.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Booker cut the thread on either side of the container. Now free from its bonds, it fell away from the organ and into his open palm. He held it up, and its silvery, metallic surface winked at them in the lamplight. Up close, Trinket could see there were two small eyes like on a needle where the thread had been woven through to keep it attached to the liver. There was also what appeared to be a cap on one end, twisted closed to prevent whatever was inside from falling out.

After examining it briefly, Booker unscrewed the top with trembling fingers. Metal squeaked against metal, echoing off the stone walls. It seemed to take a lifetime, but at last, the cap was off. Booker glanced inside and furrowed his brow. Was it empty? Would Benedict do such a terrible thing to his best friend?

But no, Booker reached a finger inside and carefully eased something out of the metal tube.

A piece of torn paper.

Rising up on her toes to get a better look, Trinket found there were marks on it. Lines and squares. But no words. It almost looked like it was a small section of a larger picture. Like a portion of a—

"A map," she muttered.

Booker nodded slowly as he turned the paper over. Blank. Flipping it back to the map side, he knit his brows together. "Yes, but there are no street names or landmarks. I have no idea where this is."

"Well, it's only a single piece. I'm sure it would make sense if you had the rest."

"The rest." His head shot up, his eyes wide. "The rest. The rest of the map. It's in the other bodies."

Stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket, he ran for the stairs. Trinket nearly tripped over her skirts trying to keep up with him as he burst through the door and into the hallway. "Booker, where are you going?" she said, grabbing the doorjamb for support as she untangled her skirts.

He was already pulling the front door open, his hands still covered in blood and viscera. "To get those other bodies."

Without waiting for her, he dashed outside, not even bothering to close the door. Daphne came out of the kitchen, holding up her hands and giving Trinket a questioning look.

"I'm sorry, Daphne, I'll explain later," Trinket said.

She locked the door, gathered up her skirts, and ran after her troublesome employer. The rain was coming down in steady sheets now, but she was still able to see him just a few feet ahead. "Booker, slow down!"

When she finally caught up with him, she grabbed his arm and forced him to stop. He spun around to face her, his eyes wild with excitement and determination. "It's a map. To him," he said. "I'm sure of it."

"Right, but Booker, I don't think you're going to gain access to those other bodies. Not yet."

He grasped her shoulders, his grip tight and desperate. "That's not good enough. Come on."

Before she could try to talk some sense into him, he put his arm around her and continued his hurried pace. Conversation was impossible as she did her best to keep from tripping into puddles while he practically ran down the street.

Someone was about to enter the police station as they drew near. The officer turned around, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Jewkes.

A wave of relief flooded Trinket's body. If Booker was going to harass an officer, at least it wasn't one who was likely to arrest him.

"Larkin?" he said, the cigarette bobbing up and down as he spoke. "What'd you do now?"

"Jewkes, I need those bodies," Booker shouted before even reaching the constable.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Jewkes threw his hands up. "I told you already, I don't have any authority over them. I'm sorry, but—"

"Blast it all! I need those bodies!" Booker exclaimed as he skidded to a halt in front of the officer and gripped his shoulders. "They were meant for me. You have no right to them."

The cigarette tumbled to the ground, and Jewkes stared at Booker incredulously. "Larkin, have you lost your bloody mind?"

"Those bodies were meant for me and I need to open them up this instant!"

Booker gave the constable a violent shake, and Trinket quickly intervened. "Booker, stop it," she hissed, clutching his arm and attempting to pull him off the officer.

"Listen to your assistant, Larkin," Jewkes barked, pushing Booker away and tugging at his rumpled jacket. "You're treading on dangerous ground here."

Twisting his fingers through his damp hair, Booker let out a frustrated growl. "You don't understand, you moronic mutton shunter."

Taking a step towards him, Jewkes grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. Trinket gasped, refusing to release Booker's arm for fear the officer might haul him in. But Booker had finally gone silent, the insanity slowly leaving his gaze as he stared up at the red-faced constable snarling down at him.

"I don't care what dirt you have on me, Larkin," Jewkes said, his voice low and deadly as rainwater dripped from the rim of his hat. "I'll toss you in a cell to rot out the remainder of your pathetic days. And don't think I need any charges to do it. I'm your only ally on this side of the law. My peers would be more than happy to lock you away."

Booker didn't respond; he only gazed at Jewkes unblinkingly.

Tightening his grip, Jewkes leaned in closer. "I have been burning the candle at both ends trying to find a way to get those ridiculous bodies to you. And I'm getting every lousy shift as punishment for how difficult I've been as of late. So I'd appreciate a little gratitude. You hear me, boy?"

Trinket's eyes darted to Booker, terrified of what sarcastic retort might come out of his mouth. But to her surprise, he blew out a long breath and lowered his gaze. "I apologize, Jewkes. You're right, you've done more for me than you needed to, especially considering the way I've been blackmailing you. I do appreciate all your help."

Jewkes reeled back, glancing at Trinket quickly before turning to Booker again. "You sick, Larkin?"

Booker gave another sigh. "No, just tired. And frustrated. Again, I'm sorry."

Slowly releasing him, Jewkes lowered his arms, his brows knit together as he eyed Booker suspiciously. "All right. Well, so long as we have that settled."

Trinket slipped her arms around Booker's waist and pulled him closer. "We're very sorry, Constable. It was a long night and an even longer morning. We'll let you get back to work."

Jewkes offered her a small smile. "Get him home safely, Miss Trinket. He's not quite himself, and I don't trust him on the streets when he's like this."

She nodded. "I'll take care of him. Thank you. And again, we're very sorry."

Reaching out, Jewkes gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder and continued into the station. Trinket watched him go and then turned her attention back to Booker who was rubbing the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. He'd stayed up all night with her and now had had this sudden break in the game, only to reach a dead end once again. No wonder he was being so irrational.

"Booker," she said softly, pulling him closer.

He put an arm around her shoulders and leaned his head against hers. "I'm sorry, Trinket," he said. "I'm sorry for this outburst and for being so irritable in the laboratory. I just . . ."

She rubbed his back. "I know. It's all right."

He groaned and shook his head. "No, it's not. You don't deserve to be treated like that. Maybe Jewkes does, but you don't." All of a sudden, he pulled away and stared down at his blood-stained hands. "Oh, blast it all. I'm sorry, Trinket. I probably ruined your dress."

As he furiously rubbed his palms against his trousers, Trinket took his arm and draped it back around her shoulders. "Never mind that. I'm used to it by now," she said, reaching up to wipe away a smear of blood on his nose.

He sighed and held her closer. "Well, at least I likely messed up Jewkes' fancy uniform."

Laughing softly, she steered him back towards the main road. "I have to say, I am quite surprised at how decent you were to him. Was it all an act?"

"Unfortunately, no. He caught me off guard and got me to be honest."

"Oh? So you do like him?"

"I don't like him, I just appreciate how he's helped me." He gagged and looked down at her. "Lord, look what you've done to me, Trinket. Appreciating Jewkes? What have I become?"

She leaned into him, doing her best to hide a satisfied smile.

As home came into view, Booker let out one last sigh. "I need those bodies. I have to get the other pieces to this blasted map."

Trinket pulled out her key and slipped it into the lock. "Have faith in our bobby friend. I think he's going to come through for us despite your ill-treatment of him."

She paused and drew her brows together as she stared at the door. It was unlocked. But she had locked it before running off, hadn't she?

"Trinket? What is it?" Booker asked.

Glancing up at him with a worried frown, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

And found Daphne lying motionless in the foyer.

Trinket gasped as Booker quickly knelt before the still woman and felt for a pulse. She went to join him when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the parlour. Pulling out one of the hairpins stashed in her pocket, she cautiously entered the room.

For a brief moment, Trinket thought the corpse from the laboratory had somehow climbed upstairs and was now admiring the mirrors and odd paintings hanging in the parlour. But no, this woman was fully clothed, sporting a very stylish brown checkered walking dress and holding a closed umbrella dripping with rainwater. Her hair was the same fiery copper as the dead woman, although this woman's curls were eccentrically pinned up into two messy buns atop her head.

She must have sensed Trinket's presence, as she turned and flashed a demure yet wicked smile. There was something odd about her face. Though perfectly shaped and smooth and pale as porcelain, there was a faint mark bordering her hairline. Like an old scar.

"Ooh, I like that," she said, her voice both playful and threatening as she sashayed over to Trinket, her eyes on the hairpin. "Lovely yet functional."

She reached for the hair ornament, and Trinket raised it, prepared to strike. But the copper-haired woman caught her wrist, squeezing it with impressive strength.

Clucking her tongue, the woman shook her head disapprovingly. "Too bad you don't know how to wield it like a real woman."

"Who are you?" Trinket whispered, her heart pounding as the woman's painted lips quirked into a smirk.

"She's not dead, she's just—"

Booker stopped mid-sentence. The woman tore her eyes away from Trinket, her smirk spreading into a full-on grin. Trinket turned to find Booker frozen in place, his gaze fixed on the woman whose fingers were still tightly wrapped around her wrist.

When he was finally able to work his tongue, he muttered, "Frieda?"

Mouth agape, Trinket turned back to the copper-haired woman. The gears began to click and turn.

The scar. It was the same scar Booker and Benedict had given their friend back in the orphanage. A spirited, fiery girl who had voluntarily offered herself up to be a test subject for two brilliant but mad young boys.

Frieda flashed another coy smile, her crystal blue eyes glued to her childhood friend and former lover. "Booker, darling," she cooed. "Did you get my letter?"