The Name of the Star (The Shades of London)
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New York Times bestseller Maureen Johnson takes on Jack the Ripper in this captivating paranormal thriller!
The day that Louisiana teenager Rory Deveaux arrives in London to start a new life at boarding school is also the day a series of brutal murders breaks out over the city, killings mimicking the horrific Jack the Ripper spree of more than a century ago. Soon "Rippermania" takes hold of modern-day London, and the police are left with few leads and no witnesses. Except one. Rory spotted the man police believe to be the prime suspect. But she is the only one who saw him--the only one who can see him. And now Rory has become his next target. In this edge-of-your-seat thriller, full of suspense, humor, and romance, Rory will learn the truth about the secret ghost police of London and discover her own shocking abilities.
All right?” I didn’t like the way she said “you say you saw,” but I nod ded. I was pretty sure at this point that if I went through this again, my head would explode. Nothing seemed real anymore. But they weren’t going to let me go until I did this. So we went through it a third time, this time concentrating solely on the man. We went into even deeper detail—the size of his eyes (medium), the depth of his eyes (deep, I guessed), wrinkles (none, really), the size of his lips (normal), the shape
get enough of this—a pretty girl in a Victorian dress. The perfect victim. That girl had died just outside my door. It was possible she was still in that white tent. Her dress would no longer be white. ��� “Julianne,” Claudia said, appearing at the door, “come here, please.” Jazza looked at me, then stood and went out of the room. She was still gone when we were all taken over to lunch as a group soon after. It was absolutely pouring now, but that didn’t slow down any of the activity outside.
reason). Also, it was very warm in the little study closet. To be honest, I’m not sure which one of us did it ﬁrst, but it was a done deal as soon as I managed to pull my gaze back from his chin to his eyes. ��� B B C T ELEVISIO N CENTRE, SHEPHERD’S BU SH, WEST LONDON OC T OB ER 2 1:45 P . M . � HE BBC IS USED TO DEALING WITH FREAKS, CRANKS, and psychos. Bomb threats are not uncommon. Nor were threats to James Goode, host of Goode Evening, the nightly news roundup and opinion show. A
reached into the box gingerly to move aside some wrapping. He started visibly and pushed down the ﬂaps of the box, hiding the contents. “Listen to me,” James said intently. “Get news on the phone. Tell them to get a camera up here now and that I’m going to need to be on the air in ﬁfteen minutes.” “What? What are you doing?” “I have the next piece of the Ripper story. And tell them to be quiet about it. Lock the door. No one else comes into this ofﬁce.” Fifteen minutes later, after a protracted
in the uniform, I had no idea who she was, and I didn’t care. The fact that Boo and the policeman were talking together in secret was enough. And then, one of the many other people coming down the street walked through the woman in the uniform. Through her. In response to this, the woman simply turned and glanced over her shoulder with a kind of “Well, that was rude” look. This was all I needed to see. There was something wrong with ��� me, no question. I couldn’t stay there hiding behind a