I returned to the desk, not to write, but to reason.

I opened a fresh page in the ledger and wrote a single heading: Persons with knowledge of my existence.

Criteria: Must know I am alive. Must know or suspect my location. Must have motive. Must have the means — patience, discretion, and access.

I listed names. Then I began to strike them out.

Henry Matthews — he knew the reasoning behind my decision. He would never act without cause, and never without distance. He had no desire to revisit what he had helped bury.

George Palmer — he had helped suppress Harvey, but he never knew why. He followed instructions, not motives. He had no reason to seek me out.

Dr Thomas Bond — he had written the letters I asked of him. He had asked no questions. He had died without knowing the full truth. Requiescat in pace.

The Home Office. The press. I had removed every vestige of evidence. They had nothing left to chase.

I paused. Two names remained.

James Harvey. Dismissed. Redirected. But not forgotten. He had seen the truth. He had been silenced. But had he stayed silent?

The child witness. Unnamed. Unrecorded. But remembered. A boy in Rose Alley. A voice in the dark. He had spoken once: “I am Jack the Ripper.” And then he had disappeared.

I wrote their names side by side. Harvey. The child.

I underlined them both. Then I sat back and stared at the page.

What becomes of a man who sees what cannot be explained? What becomes of a child who is never told what he saw?