Turned out Martha was more efficient than she looked because she phoned me on Tuesday and Wednesday with updates on the happenings at Daylesford Hall. I suspected she hadn't developed an altruistic streak so much as a deep-seated need to spread a particularly juicy piece of gossip as far as humanly possible. She even tried to get me to join the Facebook group she'd set up specially for the purpose, but I didn't have any social media accounts. When I told her that during the second call, she gasped so dramatically anyone would have thought I'd confessed to the murder itself.

"No Facebook? But you've got Twitter, right?"

"I don't even have a computer."

"But how do you keep in contact with people?"

"I don't."

"But what about your family and your friends from...wherever you were born?"

Aleppo. I was born in Aleppo. Thanks to years of civil war, I had no family left, and I'd never been great at making friends. Yes, I'd had acquaintances, but I certainly hadn't wanted to stay in touch with any of them.

So I changed the subject. "Has anyone said if we'll still get paid for this week?"

"No, but I can't imagine we won't. It's hardly our fault there was a murder."

She sounded remarkably casual about Helene's death, but even so, I sure hoped she was right. My job at Weston Corp was the first salaried position I'd held. Until then, I'd worked through agencies, and if I didn't turn up and do my hours, I didn't get paid—simple as that. And if I didn't get paid, I couldn't afford my rent. A reasonable landlord might have granted Shannon and me some leeway, but our current slumlord wasn't that man.

"When do you think we'll be able to get back to work?" I asked.

"The police are talking about Friday."

Two days away. "Will you let me know either way?"

"Definitely. Although I'm not sure I want to go back with a maniac still running around. Aren't you nervous about being there on your own?"

Being the only person at Daylesford Hall hadn't bothered me until that point. Perhaps because I'd never truly been alone. But Martha was right—if the police hadn't managed to find whoever killed Helene, I'd need to stay on my guard in case he decided to make a reappearance. But was I nervous? Not really. More tense. Death came to all of us in the end, and I knew exactly what to expect.

But I could hardly tell Martha that. "Yes, I'm a bit nervous. Do the police have any idea why she was killed?"

"Not that I've heard. But you know, the Westons are really rich. Maybe it was a robbery gone wrong? Or a botched attempt at kidnapping?" Martha gave a nervous laugh. "Forget what I said about being on your own. I'm sure you'll be fine."

***

I tried to block out Martha's words as I walked up the driveway to Daylesford Hall on Friday. England was supposed to have been the start of a new life for me. A safe life. A life where I didn't wake up each morning wondering which side would drop bombs next or how many more tethered souls I'd have to deal with as I tried to find something to eat that day.

And although life as a refugee in a country where many attitudes ranged from suspicious to downright unwelcoming had its difficulties, the tension that hummed constantly through my body had eased a little. Four years, and I'd done my best to fit in. I learned the language, worked on my accent, and bought my clothes on the high street like everybody else.

But in so many ways, I'd always be an outsider.

Lucy waved, and I muttered a quick "hello" under my breath as I passed through the gates, but with cars driving past, I couldn't risk stopping for a chat. She understood that and settled onto her rock to wait again. And wait. And wait.

Daylesford Hall was busier than usual. Extra cars parked outside, more shadows flitting about in the brightly lit windows, and a random group of people deep in discussion in the lobby. A couple of women I vaguely recognised were standing by the reception desk chatting to Martha when I tried the doors and found them locked. She looked up, fiddled with something in front of her, and the light on the security panel flashed green.

"Mr. Weston upgraded the entry system," she said. "He got some company out to install everything yesterday—cameras over each entry and exit, more swipe-card points inside so the building's divided up into sectors, and even panic buttons."

One of the girls talking to her giggled. "They've installed a panic button in the ladies' loo on the first floor. Overkill if you ask me."

Her friend raised an eyebrow. "What? Worried you might hit it accidentally if you get frisky with Stuart from sales again?"

"Shh!" She put a finger to her lips. "Nobody's supposed to know about that."

"Honey, everybody knows about that."

I had no desire to hear the details of a virtual stranger's sex life. I didn't even want to think about my own, or rather the lack of it.

"So, do I need a new pass card?"

Martha opened one drawer after another in the fancy reception desk, all polished wood and shiny granite, before coming up with a slim plastic rectangle already printed with my name and photo. "Here you go. This'll get you in everywhere. And those panic buttons are linked straight to the police." She shrugged one shoulder. "You know, just in case."

She sure knew how to make a girl feel secure.

"And does the burglar alarm have the same code?"

"There's no code anymore. As soon as the last person swipes out of the building, it sets automatically."

Sounded straightforward, but I'd never quite trusted technology. Or people. Or in fact anyone but myself. And most of the time, I doubted my own mind too.

I left Martha and her minions behind and headed for the top floor. Like many companies, Weston Corp didn't want a cupboard marked "cleaning" anywhere visitors might see, so they put it in the most inconvenient place possible—beside the toilets two floors up. Boy, I loved carrying mops and buckets everywhere.

But today, I didn't get that far before I encountered the very thing I'd been dreading since Monday.

Helene.

I'd barely spoken to her while she was alive, just a few words here and there—a quick hello in the corridor plus the occasional request that I empty her rubbish bin or clear the dirty cups off her desk. But she'd been striking to look at. Pale skin, thick honey-blonde hair she'd recently cut shorter, and sparkling green eyes. Everybody always said those eyes were her best feature.

Except now she didn't have any.

It was always hard to predict the exact form a ghost would take. The spirit world captured them close to death, at the precise moment when the soul left the body. As only those taken too soon became trapped, their tethered forms were rarely perfect. I'd seen it all. The damage a gunshot wound could cause to a person's head, blood pouring from stab wounds in a never-ending waterfall, the harsh ligature marks on victims of strangulation. But whoever killed Helene either hadn't wanted her to see them or had borne a grudge against those beautiful eyes. A trickle of scarlet marred each of her freckled cheeks below sightless eye sockets.

Even blind, she still sensed I was there. They always did. I'd talked to several spirits about how they saw me, or rather, felt me. Some said I had a glow around my body, an aura that set me apart from other humans. Others said the air crackled when I was near. And they knew I was coming—one of the few people who could help set them free for reincarnation—because the spirit guides helpfully told them of my existence.

Oh, how I hated those spirit guides. If it weren't for them, I'd have been able to ignore the ghosts and get on with my life.

Like now. I could have walked right past Helene, fetched the vacuum cleaner, ignored Arthur on my way back downstairs, cleaned Daylesford Hall, and spent the rest of the evening watching bad television with Shannon.

Instead, I was greeted with a faint gasp, a pointed finger, and an accusing, "It's you."

There was no point in denying it. "Hello, Helene."

"The...the thing told me you'd come by if I was lucky, but it gave the impression you wouldn't turn up so soon."

"Lucky..." I sighed. "Yeah."

"So, we can get started then?" She adopted a businesslike tone, one that told me she was in charge, or so she thought. But under that confident exterior, I detected a faint tremor.

"Started?" I played dumb. It was worth a try.

"The thing told me I'm stuck here for good unless you exchange my killer's soul for mine."

Helene's breath hitched on the word "killer." No, she might be pretending to be okay, but she was only one step away from breaking down. And I hated that part. Not only was I expected to be the angel of death, I was also supposed to combine that with playing guidance counsellor. Whoever created the Electi all those millennia ago either hadn't realised what a burden they'd be placing on us, or they had and they simply didn't care.

"It's not quite that simple. I can't just go around killing people."

"Well, I have to admit, it sounded a bit strange when the thing—"

"The spirit guide."

"Yes, whatever, when the spirit guide told me how this system worked, but it seemed quite certain."

And so did Helene. I needed to set her straight.

"The problem is, the spirit guides have been spouting the same spiel for thousands of years. Back at the beginning, maybe the Electi did perform that role, but now we have a police force and jails to punish criminals."

At least, England did. Syria? Not so much.

"Okay, so if the police catch whoever did this, how does that set me free?"

I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, thankful that she couldn't see me. "Well, it doesn't."

Now she lost it. The occasional sniffle turned into great racking sobs, and her shoulders shook as she cried not tears but more blood. And now that she'd turned towards me, I saw the red stain on her chest glistening against her dark-grey jumper. If I had to guess, that was the wound that killed her. A stab to the heart.

I could offer little comfort. No arm around her shoulders, no squeeze of her hand. I might be able to see ghosts, but I still couldn't touch them.

How did a person get over their own death? Some stayed in denial, talking to themselves and anyone else who happened to go past, even when nobody answered. Others retreated into themselves, ignoring everyone and everything. The ghost on the second floor at Daylesford Hall was like that. A teenage girl suspended naked in mid-air, two feet off the ground, blonde hair floating around her as blood spread from her wrists in puffy red clouds. Although we'd never spoken, I could tell she'd died in a bath that had long since been ripped out to make room for the sales director's fancy glass desk and oversized leather swivel chair.

I classed those ghosts as type one and type two, and they were the easiest to deal with because I didn't have to do anything. Type threes wanted to talk, like Lucy at the gates. Quite friendly, a little lonely, but they took time to deal with and caused embarrassment and awkward questions if anyone happened to see me conversing with them.

Then there were the type fours like Arthur on the ground floor. They wanted justice and they wanted revenge, and they were determined I should get it for them. Sure, some of them were friendly, but at the end of the day, they wanted me to do their bidding and never let me forget it. Finally, there were the type fives. Those needy souls who demanded attention and never let me get a moment's peace.

Which type would Helene turn out to be?

Based on a combination of guesswork and experience, I predicted she'd turn out to be a combination of four and five, which meant I'd need to start using the other staircase more often.

But for the moment, I tried to comfort her with words. "I understand how this must have been a terrible shock for you."

"Do you? Do you really? Because you're still alive, and I'm dead."

"I know that, but I've seen a lot of death, believe me."

"Seen it? Is that all? What about your duty?"

Helene wiped a hand across her cheek, which didn't make a blind bit of difference to the trickles of blood. If I didn't know better, I'd have said her sobs were loud enough to wake the dead.

I'd heard rumours about her being highly strung, and it looked as if they were true. Now what? I couldn't avoid this corridor completely. The executive offices lay at one end, with meeting rooms and a kitchen at the other, and they all needed to be cleaned.

"Like I said, times have changed," I told her. "And even if they hadn't, I have no idea who killed you. Can you shed any light on that?"

Helene tried to lean against the wall next to her, and I caught the look of surprise on her face when she fell right through it. No, I shouldn't have laughed. There really wasn't anything funny about the current state of affairs. But even so... New ghosts had a steep learning curve. The spirit guides whispered just enough information to make them a thorn in my side and give them false hope, but never imparted the basics, like the tethered could no longer sleep, that solid objects presented no obstacle, and if they were hungry when they died, they'd be hungry for all eternity.

Best not to mention those little facts to Helene right now.

She scrambled back to her feet and scowled as if it were my fault she'd lost her balance. I imagined that hands-on-hips pose might have carried some sway in life, but it wouldn't get her far with me now.

"No, Miss High and Mighty, I don't have any idea who murdered me. One minute I was walking towards my office, then somebody grabbed me from behind. I felt a prick in my neck, and the next thing I knew, I was staring down at my own body."

"That's it?"

"I imagine they must have drugged me with something."

"And the prick in your neck was from a needle?"

"Unless you have a better idea?"

I shook my head, then realised she couldn't see me. "No."

In fact, I didn't have any ideas at all, mainly because I'd been trying to forget about the whole situation while I'd been off work.

"Well, it's a start," she said. "Maybe the police found fingerprints or something. You can begin there."

"I already told you, I'm not starting anywhere."

"Don't you realise who I am? My father owns this company. One word to him, and you won't have a job anymore."

"Aren't you forgetting something? You've got no way of talking to your father."

Helene burst into tears again. Understandable, but ultimately it got neither of us anywhere. All it did was add a little more weight to the burden of guilt that had built up inside me over the past twenty-four years. A burden I struggled to carry at the best of times. I backed away, and Helene must have sensed the distance opening up between us, because she held out a hand and gulped back sobs.

"Please, don't go."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but I have to." Hands over my ears, I rushed down the corridor, beyond caring whether the offices of Weston Corp got cleaned today. Most likely, the forensics team had hoovered thoroughly anyway. Rather than taking the back stairs I'd come up and risking another run-in with Helene, I hurried down the main staircase and headed for the kitchen on the ground floor. As long as I cleaned up the dirty cups and plates and emptied the bins, nobody would notice I'd done a half-assed job this evening. They were all too busy gossiping in any case.

It seemed nobody else wanted to work past six. Whether out of fear, laziness, or because Mr. Weston hadn't come in today to keep an eye on them, I didn't know, but I only had to hide out downstairs for an hour before the building fell silent. Well, almost silent. I could still hear Helene weeping upstairs, and as I crossed the waiting area next to reception, Arthur's voice piped up from his position at the bottom of the stairs.

"Heard young Helene Weston got bumped off?"

"Please, Arthur, not today."

"Is it true?"

"Yes, it's true."

"Is that her making all the noise upstairs?"

"She's a bit upset at the moment."

"How's a man supposed to get any sleep around here?"

I cracked a smile, my first that day. We both knew he couldn't sleep no matter what the circumstances.

"Good night, Arthur."

Time to leave. The fancy new alarm panel beeped behind me as I pulled the front door closed, relieved to have my first meeting with Helene over with but also dreading my second. Why me? For what seemed like the millionth time, I wished I'd been born as anyone but Rania Algafari, with my screwed-up soul and a moral compass that got knocked off course long before I'd ever been born.