Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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Martha looked suspiciously cheerful when I arrived at work on Monday. On Friday, she'd been moping about Chris the cop and his lack of interest in her, but now she snapped shut her compact and tucked her lipstick back into her handbag as I approached.
"Good weekend?" I asked out of politeness.
She crinkled her nose, reminding me of Shannon. "So-so. I tried to get my Christmas shopping finished, but the shops were mobbed, I couldn't find any pink wrapping paper, and some git of a parking warden gave me a ticket. Sixty quid! I was only five minutes over the time. Okay, fifteen, but there's supposed to be a grace period, right?"
"No idea. I don't have a car."
"But things are looking up today. Mr. Weston's hired a private investigator, and he's freaking hot. L-U-S-H." She glanced down at the desk. "He wants to talk to you, and we've pencilled you in for six o'clock, right after Aiden. You know, Aiden who always wears the nice suits? We figured that would be okay seeing as you're always here late."
"Tonight? What about cleaning? If I stay any later than usual, I'll miss the bus." And Shannon would freak out, and the dinner she'd promised to cook would get cold.
"Mr. Weston said it was fine for you to skip a few bits and leave at your usual time, same as all of us. Apparently, talking to the cops and the investigator takes priority over everything. Can't say I blame him. The guy's aged a decade since Helene's murder. Anthony's pretty much been running the company."
Ah, yes, Anthony Weston. The male version of Helene, with the same eyes and entitled attitude. What he also had that his sister and father didn't was a love of Scotch. He kept a bottle of the stuff in his desk drawer, and he didn't save it for special occasions. If his secretary's mutterings were to be believed, he sometimes started on the sauce as early as breakfast.
Which meant we needed Mr. Weston back at the helm, and fast, or the company would go down the toilet and none of us would have jobs anymore.
"Six o'clock, you say?"
"Same room as before. I'd take your slot if I could, just so I could stare at the guy for a bit longer." Martha hesitated then held out her lipstick. "Want to borrow this?"
"Thanks, but I'll pass."
Happy Monday, Rania. Thankfully, Martha hadn't asked how my weekend had gone, because I barely had the energy to lie. Aisling was teething, Saturday night's date had been predictably awful, and I'd suffered from nightmares every time I closed my eyes. Now, I stomped past Arthur on my way to collect cups, not in the mood to talk. Negotiate. Whatever.
"Had any more thoughts on my offer?" he asked.
I ignored him. Same with Helene when I got upstairs and she smugly informed me of the new investigator's arrival.
"I knew Daddy would do something. See, not everyone's giving up like you are."
Tears pricked at my eyes as I reached the cleaning cupboard and shut myself inside. Was it too much to ask to get some peace? And Helene knew nothing about me. I'd tried doing things her way, my duty as she called it, and that hadn't worked out so well either. All I wanted to do in England was to live my life like any other twenty-something girl. Go to work, get paid, eat, sleep, watch movies with Shannon, and maybe go shopping occasionally. I didn't want to talk to dead people. Not for the first time, I cursed softly in Arabic at whoever put this burden on my shoulders. Why me? I wasn't special. I wasn't strong.
