𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫

How much was enough to kill a man?

A hundred dollars? Three hundred? Five hundred?

Hopefully, it wasn't much more than that.

After years of petty saving, you had a little over eight hundred in the box tucked away in your dresser. There was still the money Connie owed you from selling off pineapple hunks before your world flipped upside down, but then you would have to explain to him why you needed the cash so urgently. Such a detour would only serve as an additional complication to your already shoddy plan.

Was eight hundred enough? Would it cost more?

Mr. Ackerman should have included the Ripper's price in his secret letter. For such a competent man, he loved leaving out critical information. The lack of knowledge made your mind wander through more distasteful possibilities about why the cost remained buried underground.

What if the Ripper didn't ask for payments in cash? What if he wanted something more precious? Something that couldn't be replaced? Was that why Mr. Ackerman forced you to dress as a man? To hide your most precious asset as a young woman?

You snuck downstairs to steal some liquor before heading outside. For courage, you reasoned while filling an empty whiskey flask. If the Ripper asked for payment in more explicit terms, you wanted to be prepared and impaired. It felt wrong to consider gambling such purities away, but idealism would act as collateral to win the picturesque future of your dream.

You internally recited Mr. Ackerman's instructions as you fled outside under a starry canopy: Leave only after midnight. Put on the suit, hide your hair from view, and cover your right eye with the patch so no one can recognize you. Walk a mile past the north-most street that exits town and follow the trail marked by a deer skull and an ax in a wood stump into the forest. When you reach a fork in the path, go left and follow it until you reach a cabin. Knock three times, pause, then twice more.

You followed each line to the pencil stroke, barring from one: Mr. Ackerman wrote to walk. A trusty steed to need to carry you there, and you knew just the one.

It had been so many days since you spent time with your sweet Lady and Carrot. When you saw the ladies in the barn, they whinnied and swung their tails with excitement the further they forced their noses from their stalls to take in your smell.

"Hello, sweet ones. I missed you," you whispered as you greeted them each with a soft kiss on the snout.

But you wouldn't ride either of the girls; people in town might recognize them. Your intended steed was in the deepest stall, lingering in the far corner, almost as though he aimed to hide from you.

"Come, Voltaire," you ordered.

But he wouldn't budge.

Stepping inside the pen, you crept up to meet the stallion. His body language grew tenser with each motion. You shushed him, raising a soft hand to pet his stiff, obsidian coat. It didn't take long for the giant to melt into your touch.

"That's my sweet boy," you whispered several times as you brushed him and prepared his saddle to escape. Without wasting too much of the night, you leaped atop your horse and worked him up to a healthy cantor.

The path was uncommonly quiet. Even the mosquitos cleared the skies, but Voltaire's sighs kept you company on the ride into town. But you felt as though you were being watched.

Peaking over your shoulder, you half expected to see Jean tailing behind as you reached the north-most exit from town. His proclivity for following when you desired solitude had become a constant convention in your relationship. You swore you could smell him in the wind or hear his melodious voice sing through leaves, but you kept moving once you accepted that no one was nearby. He did not appear each time you heard a twig snap under Voltaire's hooves, a bush rustle in the breeze, or a whisper carried in the wind.