Memories flooded into Ericka’s skull that very moment, memories that did not belong to her. They belonged to Calandra, the girl whose body she was now inhabiting. She saw faces and heard voices and felt the oddest sensations prickling over her flesh. 

Vomit rose in her throat but she managed to swallow it back just long enough to beckon for a trash can or bowl of some sort. Maude seemed to instinctively understand what she wanted to say, and obediently handed her a gigantic, thankfully empty golden bowl for her to throw up in. 

After she was done emptying her stomach of any poison that remained, Ericka leaned back and exhaled, trying not to say anything as her mind accepted these memories and familiarized itself with Calandra’s speech patterns. She had no desire to slip up and say something only Ericka Elayne would say.

Like it or not, Ericka’s body and identity were well and truly dead. 

She hastily swallowed, trying to soothe her dry throat and keep herself from crying. All of her hard work that she had done for the past five years was gone. Every piece of information she collected, every photograph took, every sleepless night, all of it has been in vain. It had only led to an early death at the age of 23, stabbed and mutilated in a dark alley, and if she was right and he had destroyed her face after her body had died…

Whoever found her would not know they had found the body of a young, hopeful private investigator.

All they would see would be The Slicer’s latest prostitute victim.

Her thoughts strayed to Doyle and Stout, the only two police officers she knew of who were honest. Would they be able to identify her? Would they open up a missing persons file? Would they investigate, would they even care? Or had they only seen her as a ticket, their easy way to solve annoyingly difficult or boring cases?

Ericka hated how she immediately thought about these sorts of things. They were useless and silly, and would do nothing to help her actually identify the man who killed her.

Right now, she needed to sniff and wipe her nose, dry her eyes, and find a notepad to write the updated profile on.

“Ms. Maude?” she asked again in that alien voice.

“What is it, my dear?”

“May I…may I have a cup of tea? Mild tea, for my throat. And some water.”

Ms. Maude nearly leapt to her feet in an instant. “Of course, Lady Calandra! I shall return post haste.” Then, with remarkable energy for a middle aged woman, she almost sprinted out of the bedroom, leaving Ericka alone to collect herself.

She wiped her nose with a handkerchief that was on her bedside table, and then began the difficult process of getting out of bed.

Automatically, she knew this body was different, painfully so, from the one she was used to. This body was smaller and weaker. It didn’t seem as though she had ingested too much poison either, otherwise it would certainly be dead. 

The legs were short, thin, and frail. Even though she didn’t weigh much, they struggled to keep her upright as she got out of the bed. And as she started to walk to her desk, where she instinctively knew there was a notepad and diary to write her profile on, they wobbled and threatened to collapse and send her tumbling to the floor. 

But slowly, she made her way towards the desk. As she walked, however, she became painfully aware of the many, many differences and changes this body had that she was completely unused to.

This body had long, straight hair that came to her waist, while Ericka had cut her red hair short and feathery. Where Ericka was flat all the way down, this girl had breasts and hips. And she was so small; Ericka knew she had been tall for a woman at five feet eight inches, but this body seemed uniquely tiny and frail.

Finally, she managed to get to her desk, and Ericka settled down into her chair with a soft sigh. Her body ached so much from just this tiny walk; either Calandra was horribly out of shape, or the poison truly had almost killed her.

It’s the latter, the voice snapped in her ear.

Is that you, Calandra? Ericka found herself thinking back.

Who else would it be?

So you’re not completely dead, are you?

Not yet, but almost. I haven’t the faintest how long I can linger inside your head. Apologies.

Ericka shrugged and cracked her neck. Well, it’s better than being left utterly alone in this strange world, I suppose. 

Then she pulled out the drawer where a notepad lay next to a diary.

Don’t you dare read my diary, Calandra snipped at her.

I already have all of your memories, Ericka thought back as she picked the book up. What does it matter if I read your diary? Could help me pretend to be you more.

At that, Calandra had nothing to say.

Ericka flipped to the first empty page of the diary, supposing that writing a profile here would be safer than writing one on a barefaced notepad. 

Let’s see here, she thought to herself as she began to write down the basics.

He was almost six feet tall, average weight with black hair. The gas lamps had been dim that night, Gardener Lane was never well funded due to the red light district, and their requests for better lighting had gone unnoticed for years, so she hadn’t gotten a good look at his face, she just knew he had a pleasant one that hid his ill intentions.

His clothes had been black and red for the most part, but she thought she’d seen a little purple, only emphasizing his noble status. 

She remembered how angry he had been, at women, but he seemed to choose prostitutes to kill not for their profession, but because they were easy pickings and less likely to be investigated seriously. He also hated the police for some reason, how strange considering the police were mostly there to protect the lives and property of nobility. 

He killed like an amateur. He must have been the type to feel the itch to kill and just head out and choose the first woman who fit his type. Barely planning anything, only the bare minimum to not get caught.

Or was he so sloppy because he wanted to be caught? Did he find the policemen stupid for being unable to find him, even when he left strands of hair and fingerprints and semen and sometimes his own blood at the scene? Forensic science was a new art, imperfect in its brand newness, but even so, Ericka found it ridiculous that they couldn’t find a match for any of his DNA. 

Was his anger at the police due to their inability to find him, arrest him, stop him?

No, he felt no remorse for his actions. The way he stabbed and tore out the organs of the women he assaulted said enough. 

His family…he was not an only child. He was closer to his father than to his mother. His sibling could be a full sibling or perhaps a half sibling. The gender was one she could not tell, they could easily be male or female. 

So, in short, he was a handsome member of the upper class, likely rather entitled due to his wealth and looks. He had a feeling of superiority over other people, especially lower class women, and a lot of rage and anger that his upper class status would not permit him to express.

A pathetic man who could not control his anger and emotions. Or more accurately, someone who bottled his emotions, does it daily, and is still surprised when it explodes every time. 

Ericka leaned back in her chair. There he was, her mysterious Slicer who had been terrorizing women she knew and were friends with for the past half year. Being murdered by him herself might have been the best possible thing to happen to her in a long while. She now had a portrait of him that no one, no private investigator, no police officer, had. 

And now she was even part of the same class as he was. 

Ericka grinned. 

Now, she truly would be the one to find him. How poetic was that? The woman he killed would be the one to track him down and throw him into jail to rot for his sins. 

She couldn’t wait.