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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I felt rather than saw Will Lawson, his eyes burning into my back as I dusted the light fittings in the biggest conference room. I turned slowly, and sure enough, there he was, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Nothing wrong with your intuition," he said.
I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't even want to think about him, so I swivelled back around and resumed my dusting. He had nothing on me. Nothing. My alibi would check out, and all he could accuse me of was an overactive imagination and a slip of the tongue.
"You're just going to ignore me?"
I nodded. "That was my plan."
"We need to have another chat."
Wonderful. I could hardly refuse, but what should I say? The rules were so difficult to understand here in England. Back in Syria, it was simple. You got captured, you got tortured, and you kept your mouth shut until you escaped or died.
"You want to talk tonight?" I asked.
Will yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, and shook his head. "Tomorrow. I need some sleep, so you get a temporary reprieve."
Was I supposed to thank him? He was waiting for me to speak. "What time?"
"Six?"
"Same place?"
"Unless you feel like talking over dinner."
He was joking, right? But his face stayed impassive, and I struggled to get a read on him. Will Lawson, the newest star of my nightmares, and the man who'd given me many sleepless nights since our paths first crossed. Why couldn't he just crawl back under his rock and leave me alone?
"I don't have much of an appetite when you're around. I'll meet you upstairs."
I breathed a sigh of relief, an exorcism of my anxiety, as he backed out of the door and closed it behind him with a click. Gone, but not for long. I took a moment to look around as I willed my heart to stop racing. Despite its deceased inhabitants, I loved this old building with its juxtaposition of modern furnishings and period features. High ceilings with fancy mouldings offset by modern lights hanging down—a collection of lime-green spheres for this room. Soft music in the waiting area, comfy sofas I wished I could curl up on. The rich aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen no matter what time of day it was.
Daylesford Hall had its own soul, a kind one, unlike the stark office buildings I'd worked in when I first arrived in England. In some ways, it reminded me of the traditional Arabic house I'd grown up in on the outskirts of Aleppo's old city, a series of interconnected rooms set around a sheltered stone courtyard. My bedroom had shared the same high ceilings, edged with intricately carved stones I imagined a wizened old craftsman chiselling by hand hundreds of years before. Summer evenings were spent under the delicately fragranced jasmine tree in the courtyard, reading, eating, and listening to the calls to prayer, while in winter, I'd loved to play chess with my father.
