"It's Jacqueline, not Jack, and I am the Ripper." It was 1888 and London was bustling with the rich, the poor, and the depraved. Within the depths of London, lay the East End's Whitechapel. It was the section of the city where the lowest of the classes lived. Women frequented the streets to make the pence needed to survive. I lived with my husband, John, who is the perfect man and could have been the best father. Our lives changed the day that I miscarried, the doctor pronounced me unable to bear the children that we so desperately desired. I fell into the pit of grief and despair at the idea...