"The police want to talk to me," I told Shannon.

After a weekend of sleepless nights and bad coffee, tempered only by putting on a pair of trainers and pounding myself into the pavement, I'd spent Monday morning looking after a grumpy Aisling and counting down the minutes until Shannon got home. The afternoon didn't improve when Martha phoned, asking me to come in a little early tomorrow for an interview. Just routine, she said. The cops wanted to speak to all the staff. And, she confided, the younger officer was kind of cute. Would I mind assessing whether or not I thought he was gay? Because opinion was divided fifty/fifty at the moment, and she didn't want to embarrass herself by asking him out if he batted for the other team.

As if I'd know.

Shannon bounced Aisling on her hip, cooing softly. "I'm sure the police thing is nothing. Do you think I should take Aisling to the doctor? I reckon her sniffles are just a cold, but she seems really miserable."

"She'll probably catch something worse if you do. Think of all the people who'll be coughing and spluttering at the surgery."

Less than a month until Christmas, and I was full of cheer today, wasn't I?

"I guess. Maybe I'll wait and see how she is tomorrow."

"Sorry for being so snappy. Take her if you think you should."

"No, you're right. Rania, is everything okay? You know, with work? After the murder? You don't think the guy'll come back, do you?"

"Mr. Weston's upgraded the security for the whole building."

"But what about when you go home? I mean, the bus stop's a ten-minute walk away."

"What choice do I have? It's not like I can afford to take cabs."

And getting my own car was a distant dream. I couldn't even pay for driving lessons on my salary, let alone the vehicle itself. Yes, I'd driven in Syria, everything from small hatchbacks to military trucks when the need arose, but I'd never exactly got around to getting my licence. And in England, with all its laws and regulations, that piece of paper was everything.

"You should get one of those rape alarms, just in case."

Nobody would hear an alarm out at Daylesford Hall. The estate may have been beautiful, but it was also isolated. But Shannon meant well, and I didn't want to let on how worried I truly was, so I forced a smile.

"I'll look into it."

"Will you wake me when you come back so I know you got home safely?"

It was a strange feeling, having somebody care about me. Shannon was the first person to do so since my mother passed away three days after my sixteenth birthday, the first person not related to me by blood who cared whether I lived or died, and I still found the concept slightly awkward.

"Sure, I'll wake you."

***

I palmed the folding knife in my pocket as I walked from the bus stop to Daylesford Hall, my body humming with dark energy the way it once did every day when I lived in a war zone. Somewhere out there, a black soul could be watching, waiting...

Shadows danced as the wind whispered through the trees, mainly skeletons now that winter had arrived, but the odd evergreen stood out against the full moon. I'd once lived constantly on the alert, waiting for the worst to happen, and now those old feelings had come rushing back, albeit not with the same strength. And the environment was so different here. Woods and fields instead of rubble and abandoned buildings. The backdrop of peace interspersed with the odd car passing versus bombs, gunfire, and screams as more death came.

That peace was broken by Lucy's cheery greeting.

"Hello, Rania. Is it cold today? It looks cold."

Being a ghost did have some advantages. Lucy could watch as the sun's rays heated the earth on a baking August day and marvel as the early-morning frost twinkled from bare branches in December without ever feeling the change in temperature.

I kept my hands jammed into my pockets and my chin tucked into my scarf. "Yes, it's cold. Minus three Celsius according to the television this morning."

"I still don't understand this television thing. You say it's a square with a person inside?"

How strange it must be to live on the edges of the modern world, seeing it change around you but never being able to explore or fully understand. Lucy had watched as the road leading to Daylesford Hall turned from hard-packed mud to asphalt, the traffic changing from horse-drawn carriages and bicycles to metal boxes on wheels that whizzed along at sometimes alarming speeds.

"Television is more like a moving picture."

"Like a drawing? I used to draw when I had time. The lady of the house gave me a sketchbook and pencils for Christmas one year. Is it Christmas soon?"

"Three weeks to go."

"I miss Christmas. The children were always so happy, even when their governess insisted they have lessons before they could play with their toys. And the food... We had roast turkey and goose, and Cook would boil the stockpot for days to make the gravy. What will you have for dinner on Christmas Day?"

Last year, we'd eaten cheap—roast chicken and wonky vegetables, with a Christmas pudding Shannon had found on the discount shelf for dessert. What would this year bring?

"I'm not sure yet."

A car engine sounded in the lane, cutting our conversation short. "Got to go. I'll talk to you later."

***

Daylesford Hall had three staircases. The main set wrapped around the waiting area, wide and ornate with its fancy iron railings, which were now painted in pale grey and white. High on the wall opposite, a mural of the ancient world—either painted long ago or made to look that way—appeared out of place above the navy-blue block letters of Weston Corp's motto: Innovation, integrity, ingenuity.

Arthur's spirit dwelled beside the bottom step, sometimes sitting, mostly standing, as corporate clones walked past and often through him. Arthur had died at fifty-two, he'd told me, tipped over the top-floor balcony as he paused to reflect while working late one night. The railing up there was only waist height, curved into an oval so the servants could discreetly check on the owners of the house and their guests without intruding. I never liked to step too close to it. Arthur's neck canted permanently to one side where it broke on impact, and he'd adopted a tilted posture to compensate. It went well with his attitude, which veered from morose to chatty to cantankerous on a regular basis.

The second flight of stairs, the one where Helene now lurked, stood at the rear of the property and led from the basement to the second floor. That was the one I'd habitually used, but now I headed for the third set in the middle of Daylesford Hall, narrow and twisty, and liable to break my neck if I tried carrying the vacuum cleaner up and down it.

Even so, Helene noticed my arrival.

"Hey, you! Cleaning lady!"

A guy my age brushed past, and I recognised him from the sales department. The "World's Best Daddy" according to the mug he always left on his desk, half-filled with milky coffee he never drank. Father or not, that didn't stop his eyes from dropping to my chest before briefly meeting my gaze.

"Evening," he said. "Are you staying here on your own?"

What business was it of his? "I always do."

"Be careful."

Why did he say that? Friendly advice? Or a warning? "I always am."

My fingers touched the knife once more, safely tucked into the front pocket of my jeans. According to a TV programme Shannon had watched the other day, anyone carrying a knife was, statistically speaking, more likely to get stabbed with it than successfully ward off an attacker, but I'd never cared much for statistics.

Helene's voice rang out again. "I know you're there."

Honestly, the woman had no sense. I stomped to her corridor and checked both ways.

"Shut up!" I hissed. "There are people here, so I can't talk."

"Oh. I see."

I turned to walk away, but she wasn't finished. "Will you come back later?"

"Maybe."

"You'd better! I hate being on my own."

Yes, definitely a type four-slash-five. Just what I needed to go with the job of my dreams.

I spent half an hour collecting the dirty crockery to put in the dishwashers, which was the task that annoyed me most. Did these people just leave plates and mugs all over the place at home? If not, why did they do it at the office? Then I emptied the wastebaskets, which included picking up the wadded sheets of paper and misshapen piles of discarded Post-it notes that people had thrown in their direction and missed. I dusted, I polished, I vacuumed the sales office and the accounts office, and finally I could put it off no longer. I needed to deal with Helene.

"What do you want?" I asked her. "And my name's Rania, not 'hey you' or 'cleaning lady.'"

"Okay, whatever. I've been thinking."

Well, it wasn't as if she had much else to do. "And?"

"I may totally disagree with your decision, but I guess I understand why you can't hunt down the man who murdered me and do the same to him."

Wonders would never cease. "I'm glad you see it that way."

"But you can't let this go. Like you said, times have changed, which means you have to find the perpetrator and make sure he goes to jail."

"That's the police's job."

"And they're not doing it. I heard my brother speaking to Derek yesterday. The police haven't got the faintest clue who killed me, even though they've been questioning everyone."

"Derek was your boyfriend?"

I'd seen the pair of them in a photo on the staff noticeboard in the kitchen, front and centre at some charity gala last year. I suspected he drove the brand-new BMW that was always parked right outside the front door, shiny white with the "B1 GDK" vanity plate.

"Derek was my fiancé." Helene waved her left hand at me, and even in death, the rock on her ring finger sparkled. "He's devastated."

Who wouldn't be cut up at missing the chance to spend the rest of their life with such a winning personality? Rania, stop it... I sighed. Maybe Helene hadn't been so bad when she was alive, and it wasn't her fault I'd inherited a gift I hated.

"I'm sure he misses you terribly."

"Which is why you have to investigate my death. Your job has evolved, and I imagine that's why I'm here. You know, to help you. Why else would I be stuck in this bloody corridor?"

Annoyingly, she was right. The tethered were left to help us find the black souls who took the lives of others, but that still didn't mean I'd follow her wishes.

"Look, I'd help if I could, but I need to work or I don't eat. Between that and babysitting duties, I don't have time to investigate crimes, and even if I did have the time, I wouldn't know where to start."

A little white lie. In Syria, I'd known exactly where to start, but that was a world away. I could hardly waltz into a police station in the UK and steal their files, nor could I persuade people to help by less-than-palatable means.

Helene waved a hand. "I'm sure you'll figure something out. I mean, if you don't, if you keep ignoring your purpose in life, how will you live with yourself?"

Her words sliced into me, a sharp blade delivered in an upper-class English accent. Because that was the exact same question I'd been asking myself since my mother explained to me who I was. What I was. And so far, I hadn't found the answer.

"That's my problem," I muttered, heading for the main staircase.

"You can't keep pretending I don't exist," Helene yelled after me.

No, but I could try.

As if my discussion with Helene wasn't bad enough, Arthur was standing with his hands on his hips when I reached the ground floor.

"She's not happy, huh?"

"Nope. How much did you hear?"

"Enough. She's right, you know. You're the only hope for us, and until you start doing your duty, we're all stuck here. The police think I killed myself, for goodness' sake. My own wife thinks I killed myself, and every night I wonder how much she must resent me for taking the coward's way out. My kids are grown up now, and I've missed their graduations, their first dates, maybe even my grandchildren."

"I'm sorry, okay?" I took a deep breath and softened my tone. "Perhaps I could find out about your children? You know, where they are now."

"I'd like that, but it still wouldn't change the fact that there's a man walking around out there who ended my life, and nobody's even looking for him."

"I wish I could help, but I can't. Now there are two murder victims just in this building. Where would it end? I barely have time to sleep as it is."

Arthur folded his arms and smiled, a cunning grin I hadn't seen before. A trap, and I'd walked right into it.

"I know," he said. "Which is why I've got a deal to offer you."

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

Arthur had been dead for twelve years. What could he possibly have to trade?

"If you find my killer, I'll help you to catch the person who did Helene in."

Realisation dawned. "You saw them?"

He nodded, his cat-that-got-the-cream expression growing ever more smug. "Walked right past me on the way upstairs."

A tiny spark lit inside me at the thought of bringing Helene's killer to justice. Of doing something good. But a tsunami of doubts extinguished the flame before it got a chance to take hold. Sure, Arthur could help me solve Helene's murder, but to do that I'd have to find the key to a twelve-year-old case that was colder than the Arctic. And I was no detective. Hell, I couldn't even pick out the culprit in the daily reruns of Columbo I watched with Aisling.

"Sorry, Arthur. I can't do it."

His expression blackened. "But I'm offering to help you solve a crime."

"No, you're asking me to do the impossible in return for information that any civic-minded citizen would pass over in a heartbeat. And even if you did hand me Helene's killer on a plate, what would I say to the police? I can hardly explain a ghost saw the crime, can I?"

"Maybe you could say you saw it?"

"No way." Because then they'd start digging around in my life and my past, and besides, I had an airtight alibi.

"I can see you need some time to think about this."

"I've already thought about it."

"Sleep on it. I'm sure you'll do the right thing."

Great. Now Arthur was delusional too. All I needed was for the weird floating girl in the bath upstairs to wake up and join in, and I'd have to hang up my dishcloth and start picking cabbages for a living. Apart from cleaning, that was the only job I'd been offered since I arrived in England.

"See you tomorrow," he called, sounding worryingly cheerful as I headed for the door.

I didn't bother answering. Denial was a wonderful thing.

"You look like you need a drink," Shannon said when I got in.

I never touched alcohol, but the temptation had never been so strong. "Just a paracetamol."

"What's wrong? Is it work?"

"Sort of."

Ghosts. I was being blackmailed by ghosts. Quite possibly a unique problem, because although there were supposed to be three other Electi on Earth at any one time, I was quite sure they handled their affairs more appropriately than I did.

Shannon put one arm around my shoulder and squeezed, a comforting gesture for any normal person, but I didn't take or give affection well. In fact, physical contact made my skin crawl. But Shannon meant well, so I kept still and hoped my grimace looked more like a smile.

"You're not still worried about the murderer being out there? I doubt he's hung around what with the police being there all the time."

"It's not that. I'm beginning to think you're right, and I should look for a new job."

"Do you want me to see if there's any evening shifts at the bread factory?"

Knowing my luck, I'd probably come face-to-face with some poor sod who met his maker in a vat of dough or something. But Shannon was trying to help, and goodness knows, I needed that.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask."