A/N: Thank you guys for the sweet reviews that I got on the first chapter! I already love writing the dynamic that is Phryne and Jack; so I thought I'd continue right where I left off last chapter.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine but the plot.

Chapter Two: Do Not Be Afraid of Shadows

"I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me why you were at Miss Fisher's house," Jack growled to Rosie as he opened the door for her to enter the car. She didn't answer him, but instead settled into the seat and stared straight ahead. He groaned inwardly. Whenever Rosie decided to shut down, there was no getting anything out of her. He had learned that the hard way, after years of trying to pry information from her so he could fix whatever she deemed he had broken. With an almost sadistic shrug, Jack realized that he was no longer her husband; it was no longer his duty to figure out what had her so irritated.

So he drove her back to her father's house, where she was staying while she and Sidney figured out their business, in complete silence. Despite Jack's forced nonchalance, he felt himself struggling to not question her. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

She seemed confused by his lack of interest as well; she kept turning her eyes to his profile when he focused on the road but he could feel the weight of her gaze, her eyes locked onto his set jaw, determined not to give in. It wasn't until they pulled up to George Sanderson's home that she spoke again, this time her voice timid.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" she asked quietly, wringing her handbag in her hand.

"Are you going to tell me why you were at Miss Fisher's house today?" he answered with another question, and watched as she considered it.

"If you want," she conceded finally. "But you aren't going to be happy about it."

"I don't want another row, Rosie," Jack said tiredly, rubbing his hand over his face. "I have two murders to solve. Why don't I just leave you here and we'll talk about it later?"

"I went to tell her to leave you alone," Rosie blurted, suddenly unsatisfied with the idea of him leaving so soon. "Because we were going to get back together."

He had suspected as much, but hearing the words come out of her mouth still surprised him. "You had no right to go bandying about our business like that," he snapped. "Especially unconfirmed business!"

"You said yourself that you still loved me," Rosie was practically pleading with him now, no doubt knowing that he would be hard pressed to deny a begging woman. "And I still love you."

"We were married for a long time," he said gently, "so I will always love you. But I'm not in love with you anymore, and I don't think you're in love with me. We were separated for years before we got divorced. I don't understand why you've changed your mind now."

Rosie's hand clasped his in her own. "Will you at least think about it?" she asked. "I want to be with you, Jack."

He lowered his eyes to his lap. "I don't think you actually want to be with me," he answered. "What happens when I go back to staying out all night to finish a case? What happens when –?"

"When you finally decide that you're in love with Miss Fisher?" Rosie finished for him. "Fancy her all you like, Jack, but you'll never get a marriage out of her." Her voice had taken on a cruel tone that grated on his nerves.

As if he didn't already know that. He felt disappointment sting in his chest, but suppressed it. He didn't need to be reminded of what he already knew. "I need to get back to the station, so," he gestured out of the car, and Rosie reached for the handle to get out.

"Do you love her, Jack?" she asked, her voice soft. "Would you really be content to be a kept man instead of a husband?"

He didn't answer her, but let her slowly get out of the car, and drove away before the door was even completely shut. These were not the questions he wanted to work out in front of his ex-wife that was determined to become his second wife. He sighed heavily, resisting the urge to rest his head on the steering wheel while he was driving.

Did he love Miss Fisher? It was an easy enough question for him to answer, yet the words wouldn't come. He remembered the terror and grief that gripped him when he thought she had perished in that car crash; the way his hands shook when she got taken by Foyle. He knew that he cared deeply for her, or else he wouldn't have tried to extricate himself from her when he thought she didn't feel the same way. But in at least one respect, Rosie was right; he would not be content to be simply a kept man. He was old fashioned, probably too old fashioned for Miss Fisher's taste.

But unfortunately, despite his usually dour outlook, he was an optimist. A part of him would always hope for some idyllic future with Miss Fisher and her household of strays and friends that consistently occupied her guest rooms with laughter and happiness. He ached for some happiness.

He pulled up to the station, deciding not to linger in the car, and instead, headed straight for the door. Collins was writing something down when he walked in, but he greeted him all the same. Jack borderline ignored him and stalked into his office, finding that his attitude was significantly darker than he had originally anticipated. The idea of facing people put his nerves on edge; he wanted nothing more than to sit in his office and stare at the wall, lost in his thoughts.

But alas, he did not have that luxury.

"Inspector," Collins knocked on the doorframe, his eyes large and frightened. Jack waved him in. "The coroner's report on your stagehand came in a few minutes ago. Looks like he was stabbed, but he had been poisoned prior. The stab wound was inflicted before he died, but it was not the cause of death."

"The two options would have barely missed each other, Collins," Jack mused, taking the report from his hands and perusing it himself. "Interesting. Other stomach contents were bread, ham, pickles, and tea. Looks like he was probably poisoned at lunch. Let's figure out who he ate with."

He rose from his chair and paused almost as soon as he did. "Collins, have we heard anything about the little girl?"

"Sophie, sir?" Collins clarified. "Not yet. The coroner should be getting the autopsy report here as soon as possible."

Jack nodded, fixing his hat more securely over his hair. "Don't let me forget about Spenser the stagehand in the flurry to catch a young girl's killer, Collins."

The fact that his superior asked something of him, something that was probably akin to showing weakness, made Hugh Collins's face still in a terrified way. He seemed to sense, as Jack did, that this case was different than the other ones they did. This one would not be faceless, or go quietly into the night. This one would be a haunting.

….

Phryne knocked quietly on Jane's door, careful not to startle the young girl, who was reading a book, as she often did. "Can I come in?" she asked when Jane looked up, her fingers still turning her plait in a twist.

"Sure," she said, sitting up straighter in her bed. She pulled her knees up to her chest. Phryne almost corrected the childish pose, it being inappropriate for polite society, but decided against it. There wouldn't be much more time for childish gestures. "What's wrong?"

The simple phrase brought tears to Phryne's eyes. She hated having to be the one to do this to a girl who had already been through so much. She sat on the edge of the bed she had given to Jane, covered in the sheets that reminded her so much of her younger sister, and reached for her hand. The little girl momentarily recoiled, a leftover side effect of what that blasted hypnotist had done to her, but relaxed when Phryne's warm hand closed over her own.

"I need to tell you something difficult," Phryne began. "And it's going to be hard, but I would rather you find out from me than someone else."

Jane had turned fully to her now, her knees brushing against Phryne's own leg. Her face was turned up to hers in an innocent curiosity mixed with knowing dread. Phryne tightened her grip on her.

"Someone found Sophie's body in the alley by the theatre this morning," she said quickly, searching Jane's face for the realization. It was barely hovering there, like Jane didn't want to believe it, but Phryne's own quivering voice seemed to confirm it for her.

"Sophie's dead?"

Phryne nodded, unwilling to give any other details than that. She didn't need Jane waking up in a cold sweat, like Phryne often did herself, thinking of the horrors that her friend had endured. A sob escaped the young girl and Phryne pulled her to her chest, hugging her tightly while the little girl cried.

Oftentimes, Jane was so intelligent and capable that Phryne forgot how young she was. But it was moments like these, where she was clinging to her shirt, crying desperate tears, that Phryne realized that Jane was still so young, and had survived so many things that adults would never get over.

"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice small against Phryne's chest. She dropped her eyes to the top of the girl's head, already trying to come up with an excuse.

"I…I don't think that's what's important," she said uncertainly. "But the killer left a note with your name in it. So you're going to have to stay home from school a couple of days."

"My name?" she furrowed her brows. "Why me?"

Phryne shrugged. "That's a question I have yet to answer, but when I find out, I'll come straight to you."

Jane hugged her once more before releasing her. "You'll find whoever did it," she said with confidence, "You always do."

Phryne would be hard pressed to name a time where she felt more powerful than she did in that moment, with a little girl staring up at her with her red-rimmed eyes, placing all of her pride in her foster mother. She breathed a heavy sigh and nodded.

"I'll get them, Jane," she promised. "As long as you swear to stay safe."

Jane gave her a single nod and Phryne retreated from the room, shutting the door behind her. She could have sworn that she heard Jane sob again as the door closed, but couldn't bring herself to disturb solitary grieving.

….

The man that had been tracing his hand down Miss Fisher's arm when Jack had arrived at the theatre was known as Donald Kastan. He was a stagehand, like Spenser, and while they weren't friends, they were friendly. Jack found himself scowling at the man, wondering why he would have felt familiar enough with Miss Fisher to touch her bare skin like he knew her intimately.

"Are you from Australia, Mr. Kastan?" he asked, making notes in his notebook. The man's accent was so faint that he wasn't sure where he was from, but it certainly wasn't here.

"London," he clarified. "I came here when my mother passed on. The only family I have left is my brother, and we don't get on."

Jack could hear the English accent more prominently now. "How long have you been in the country?" he asked.

"Only a few years," the young man replied. "Wait…you don't think I did this, do you?"

Jack ignored his question. "Do you know who ate lunch with Spenser today?" he asked instead. "Anyone he often had lunch with?"

"Mighta been Regina," Donald replied easily. "Regina Lastor? She's the lead actress," he looked surprised that he would have to explain this to the policemen, but Collins looked just as confused as Jack felt, so he didn't bother pretending to know what the operetta was. After his own failed venture into the performing arts, he didn't often keep up with it.

"Where can we find her?" Jack asked. Donald pointed to a hallway adorned with doors that led to anywhere imaginable.

"Her dressing room is the last on the left," he specified. "If you'll excuse me, I have to start making sure the set is in place."

Jack nodded and watched him leave, with the ease of someone that wasn't hindered by guilt. He turned back to Collins, who shrugged. "He has an alibi for the time of death that seems pretty solid, sir," he said. "Was at the pub most of the night. Some people can confirm it."

"Keep an eye on him, Constable," Jack said anyway. "I'm not sure I trust him yet."

Deep in his gut, he knew that his mistrust wasn't with the stagehand, but with the easy way that he was talking to a woman that did not cross paths with him in any usual way. He still didn't understand the connection between Phryne and Donald, and if the information wasn't readily offered, he would have to ask the woman in question herself.

Regina answered with a breathy "come in!" when Jack knocked on her dressing room door. She was a beautiful blonde, her high cheekbones and dark red lips reflected in the illuminated mirror that she was using to reapply her makeup. She glanced up when Jack and Collins entered, and Jack watched as her eyes hungrily drank in first him, and then Collins.

He furrowed his brows, trying not to be annoyed. What was with women today?

"Miss Lastor," Jack began, surreptitiously glancing down at his notebook to make sure he got her name right. "My name is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and this is Constable Hugh Collins. We're investigating Spenser's death."

Regina's face comically shifted from her previously hungry look to one of pure devastation. "Of course, poor sweet Spenser," she said mournfully, resting her manicured hand over her heart. Her chest was too exposed, her dressing gown open a few too many buttons, and Jack quickly averted his eyes.

"Did you know Spenser well?" Jack asked, watching her face carefully so he could avoid looking anywhere he shouldn't.

"Well enough," Regina answered evasively, turning back to her mirror and pursing her lips. "He made sure that my props were always were I could find them."

The quiet scribbling from behind him told Jack that Collins was writing down that particular tidbit of information. Good. He tilted his head at the actress, who wasn't as good an actress as her leading role would have him believe. Her eyes couldn't seem to focus on anything in particular, and her previously steady hands were much less sure than before.

"One of the other stagehands indicated that you often took lunch with him," Jack said gently, watching for a change in her face. Her face stilled with the effort of not giving herself away. Rookie mistake.

"We ate together every now and then," she answered finally.

"So you were a little bit closer than just professional friends," Jack intoned, nodding to Collins to make a note. The girl seemed scandalized by the idea, but did not refute it. "What exactly was the nature of your relationship?" he asked.

She didn't answer him, but reached for a white stole that she fixed around her neck, reminding Jack very much of Miss Fisher, and gave him an imperious stare. It seemed she was getting her acting legs back under her.

"Just because Spenser ate lunch with me sometimes doesn't mean anything untoward was going on," she sniffed. "Spenser just…watched out for me sometimes."

"In what manner?" Jack asked. When the girl withered under the question she was unwilling to answer, Jack pressed a little harder. "We can do this here, or I can take you down to the station. If you don't tell us the truth, you'll be considered a suspect."

"Spenser and I did not have a romantic relationship," Regina insisted, her red lips sticking out in a pout. "It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" he asked again.

"Spenser was my brother," Regina admitted quietly. "My half brother. I got him the job on the show because he couldn't find a job. His…drug habit wasn't something that other employers found attractive."

"A drug habit?" Jack repeated. He turned back to Collins, who shrugged.

"Cocaine," Regina said, reclaiming her seat, her head bowed in embarrassment. "Our father disowned him when he was young because he was…according to father, more trouble than he was worth. So he kind of just drifted between friends and kind people before I got him this job."

"Can you give us any names of the people he might have gotten his drugs from?" Jack asked, already dismissing the girl as a suspect. She shook her head.

"He didn't even like eating lunch with me," she said, tears coming afresh on her cheeks. "He only did it to make sure that I ate."

"Do you suffer an ailment, Miss Lastor?" Collins asked, his voice soft and comforting. Jack cherished Collins in moments like this. Those were details he wouldn't have caught while his mind was turning too loud to hear.

"When I first wanted to be an actress, I used to make myself throw up after I ate so I wouldn't get fat," Regina's voice was quivering, broken, her eyes full of a sea of troubles that Jack didn't have time to unravel.

"Did you eat lunch with him yesterday?" Jack asked as Collins fished out his handkerchief and passed it to the weeping actress. She dabbed her eyes, trying to keep her makeup intact. She shook her head.

"He said he would sit with me, but he had already eaten," she said. "Why? I thought he was stabbed?"

"He was also poisoned," Jack said. "Poison is what did him in, not the stabbing."

Regina began to weep anew and Jack felt uncomfortable. He glanced up at Collins, who shrugged.

…

Phryne had already had a couple of drinks by the time that Jack made it back to her house. She was sitting in the window, her feet curled up close to her, a glass cradled in her hand. Jack lingered in the doorway, his eyes on her form. She was so thin, he noticed. He wondered if she had ever done what Regina Lastor had done.

"Jack," she helloed when she noticed him standing there. "I thought you weren't going to come."

"I had an interview with the victim's sister," he explained. "Once she started talking, it was hard to get away."

He took the seat across from her so that her toes were barely brushing his leg. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, red-rimmed, and held something he rarely saw in Phryne Fisher. Doubt.

"What can I do?" he asked without bothering to find out what was wrong. Her eyes settled on him, and Jack had the distinct feeling she was drinking him in, like she didn't know when the last time she'd see him was.

"I don't know," she admitted finally, her breath shaky. He struggled to find something to say, but everything they could talk about wouldn't help her current disposition. After a long silence, he opened his arms and tilted his chin at her, hoping she'd take his silent offer.

She sidled up to him, curling into his side like a cat. "I told Jane about her friend," she whispered, her head turned away from him, facing out the window. "She's not going to school until we catch whoever did it."

"We're still waiting on the coroner's report," Jack replied. "We're going to get whoever did it."

"Promise?" Miss Fisher's voice was still not as strong as he was used to, but she got like this when the victim was a young girl. He nodded, trying to resist the urge to kiss the top of her head.

"Can I ask you something?" Jack asked quietly. Miss Fisher turned her head up to him, and he was suddenly struck silent; their noses were practically touching, her breath warm on his face, smelling vaguely of port.

"Always," she answered.

"Have you ever…made yourself throw up?" he asked, his hand that was around her waist settling on her incredibly flat stomach. She furrowed her brows, considering the question.

"Only the one time I thought I had ingested poison," she said blandly. She didn't bother asking why he was asking. She leaned out of his embrace momentarily to lean towards the container of port. She poured herself some and passed one to Jack. He took a sip but it didn't feel earned.

"I hear you and Rosie are getting back together," Miss Fisher finally said, her voice deceivingly unbothered.

He suddenly wished she was facing him so he could gauge her reaction. "Rosie wants me to consider it."

This time, he felt the reaction in her body. Her shoulders stiffened, her back straightened, and she surreptitiously moved away from him. He wanted to sigh. There was no way to win in this scenario. No matter what, he'd be showing his hand to a woman who probably didn't want to see all of his cards.

"If I were being honest," he finally said into the silence, Miss Fisher's head turning sharply toward him. "I'm still a little old-fashioned, and I think I'd only be happy if I were someone's husband, someone who loved me in return. Unfortunately, the person I truly care for would never consider that a romantic notion."

She was watching him through the curtain of her eyelashes. She wasn't stupid; he knew she understood what he meant. Finally, she sighed.

"Does that mean that you aren't going to give her a chance to make you happy without a wedding?"

There was something incredibly soft and hopeful in her voice now, a tone that he rarely heard from her. He shifted so that she could face him completely now. Her eyes weren't locked on his, but rather staring at a place around his chest area, as though she couldn't bear to look at him.

"I wasn't aware that was an option," he replied carefully.

"And if I told you it was?" she answered, finally daring to look into his eyes again.

He felt his lips spread into one of the first smiles of the day.