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.

But I was wasting time. I had an entire building to clean and another stupid interview to fit in before I could go home, and sitting on an upturned bucket feeling sorry for myself wouldn't change anything.

I picked up a duster and a can of polish and went to clean the executive offices.

***

"Rania Algafari?"

Aiden's interview must have been over quickly because the meeting room had been empty when I arrived. I'd settled onto a chair and waited, and now, at five past six, a dark-haired man slid into the seat opposite. Hopefully, my interrogation wouldn't take long either.

"Yes, that's me."

He offered a hand for me to shake. "Will Lawson."

Custom called for me to say I was pleased to meet him, but I wasn't, so I kept my mouth shut. Petty, perhaps, but I didn't ask to be here.

"I understand from Lloyd Weston that you're the cleaner here at Daylesford Hall?"

"I am."

He studied me, in no hurry to ask his next question, and I had to grudgingly admit that Martha was right. Will Lawson had the cop beat hands down in terms of looks, but his eyes worried me. Perfectly normal from a quick glance, chocolate brown with flecks of gold, but the way they bored into my soul unnerved me. The tension that had ebbed away a little over the past week began buzzing through my veins again like a low current of electricity just waiting for someone to turn up the dial.

"What hours do you work?"

"I arrive between three and four, and I'm usually done by ten, Monday to Friday."

"Ever work weekends?"

"Rarely. Only if there's an event on and I get asked. I didn't work the weekend Helene Weston died."

The words rushed out, and I bit my tongue. Will's lips curved up at one corner, perhaps because he could sense my fear. Even the cops hadn't made me feel this uncomfortable.

On the surface, Will looked relaxed, but when I dropped my gaze, I noticed he had a habit of sliding his pen cap off and on with one hand. Off. Clicking it back on again. Off. On. He caught me watching and dropped it on the table.

"And Sunday evening? Where were you?"

"I've already told all this to the police."

He let out a short laugh, but there was no mirth in it. "I'm not working with the police, so I'd be much obliged if you could tell me too."

Something about the way he said it, his cold tone, told me there was no love lost between him and local law enforcement, so in a way, I could empathise.

"I was on a date."

Will's jaw cracked.

"In Pizza Express, with a guy called Jack." I'd checked with Shannon now. She'd been paying slightly more attention than I had. "We left around ten, and I went straight home."

"I'll need Jack's contact information."

"I don't have it."

Now Will smiled. "The date didn't go well?"

"Could have been better." Like, if I'd stayed at home.

"Never mind. I'll check with the restaurant. A face like yours, someone'll remember you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're striking. You must know that."

I looked for a sign he was joking, but his face stayed serious, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Men didn't pay me compliments, especially in the middle of official interviews. I had no answer, so I folded my hands in my lap and waited.

Will leaned back in his chair and adopted a more conversational tone. "So, what did you think of Helene?"

"Back when she was alive?"

He gave me a puzzled look, and I wanted to smack myself for saying something so stupid. Will Lawson made me speak first and think after with his long silences and prying eyes.

"Has your opinion of her changed now she's dead?"

Yes. Before, I'd been indifferent. Helene had been pretty, kind of unapproachable, someone to envy a little if I was honest. Now, I thought she was a whiny brat.

"Of course not. I barely spoke to her before she died, and I don't know much more about her now. But her father must be getting desperate to have hired you."

His expression went flat. Dammit, I'd put my foot in it again. "Thanks."

"I didn't mean it like that, honestly. I just thought that the police were already investigating..."

"The police are suffering from funding cuts, same as every other government-run agency. Lloyd Weston wanted someone who's more focused on his daughter's case."

"I guess with his kind of money, that makes sense."

"I'm interested in your thoughts. Why do you think somebody might have killed Helene?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm just the cleaner." And even Helene herself didn't have a clue who did it.

"But I bet you see things. Hear things. Offices like this always have their secrets."

"Nothing that I'd consider pertinent to the case."

"Really? No politics and power struggles? Petty theft? Affairs? Closet romances?"

I thought back over my time at Weston Corp. There'd been a rumour about Lloyd Weston shagging his secretary, borne out by the fact that she'd quickly been replaced by a forty-year-old guy the day after Mr. Weston's wife threw a cup of coffee over her. Then said guy was fired a fortnight later after smoking pot on company premises. Not long after that, a salesman got marched out of the building with the contents of his desk in a cardboard box, followed by whispers that he'd been abusing his company credit card. And I'd found a pair of pink panties wedged down the back of the sofa in the break room one day, a frill of lace just visible sticking out from behind the cushions. But were any of those linked to Helene's death? Unlikely.

"You should try talking to Martha, the receptionist. She knows far more about that sort of thing than me. I understand she even has a Facebook group."

"I already spoke to her." Will grimaced. "I'd still be speaking to her now if there hadn't been a problem with the catering for tomorrow's lunch meeting."

Will's obvious distaste meant I smiled without meaning to, and he grinned back, all white teeth and boy-next-door sexiness with an edge of danger running under the veneer. The odd camaraderie mixed with a hint of pheromones made my heart give a nervous flip.

"Don't worry, she'll move on to someone else soon enough. Last week, she had her sights set on one of the policemen. Uh, Chris Turner?"

"She's not Chris's type." Will's grin disappeared.

"You know him?"

"Our paths have crossed."

"In what way?"

"Doesn't matter."

Funny how he wasn't so keen on talking when it was me asking the questions, wasn't it? He picked up his pen again. Lid off, lid on, lid off, lid on.

"Out of everyone, you're here the latest at night. Have you ever seen anyone hanging around? Or felt anyone?"

"Felt anyone?"

"Intuition's often underrated."

Didn't I know it? My gut had got me out of more sticky situations than I cared to think about over the years. That and whispers from helpful spirits.

But I shook my head.

"Who else tends to work late?"

"The sales department. Sometimes the accounts team if it's a month-end. But it's rare for anyone but the Westons to be here after seven thirty."

A memory popped up, of the time I'd gone to collect Anthony's Scotch glass and caught him watching porn on his computer, dick in hand. Luckily, he'd been too busy concentrating on his happy ending to notice me.

"What?" Will asked. "You're smiling?"

"It's nothing."

"Let me be the judge of that."

"Fine. One member of the management team likes to watch porn when he thinks everyone's gone home. But I don't see how that could possibly connect to Helene's murder."

"Anthony?"

My silence gave him his answer.

"Thought so."

"How did you know?"

"He seems the type. Plus his girlfriend's screwing around with her tennis coach, so I don't suppose he's getting much at home."

I choked a little, and Will's grin came back, smug, as if he was pleased with himself for shocking me.

"You didn't know about that part, huh?"

"No, and I didn't want to know."

"You're an interesting girl, Rania. Every other woman in this place laps up gossip like it's her lifeblood."

"I'm not sure what you expect me to say to that."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Me neither. I guess I find it refreshing. Makes me curious about what makes you tick."

Another silence followed, long, painful even.

"Aren't we supposed to be discussing Helene Weston?" I asked.

"You didn't seem too keen on that, but now that you mention it..."

I let out a long breath because I'd fallen right into a trap again. "But I don't know anything. Really, I'd tell you if I did, just so I could get out of here."

He held up both hands. "I'm not holding you prisoner."

"No, but if I don't cooperate, I bet that would get back to Mr. Weston."

That lopsided shrug came again.

"Okay, the only person who's come across as odd since the murder is one of the salesmen. He asked if I was staying on my own in the evening, and when I said I was, he told me to be careful."

"That's it?"

"The way he said it, it sounded like more of a warning. Look, you were the one who talked about intuition."

"I did. Any idea of his name?"

No, but I gave Will the details I did have, including which desk the guy sat at.

"Nothing else?"

Perhaps because I was tired, or perhaps because I was too busy concentrating on the gold flecks sparkling in Will Lawson's irises to think straight, I came up with the idea of mentioning Arthur. After all, he couldn't keep complaining if I'd turned his case over to a professional, could he?

"There was another death here a while ago. I doubt they're connected, but..."

Will raised an eyebrow then flicked the cap off his pen entirely. "A murder? Nobody's mentioned that."

"It went down as a suicide."

"But you don't believe that?"

It was my turn to shrug.

"How long ago did it happen?"

"Uh, twelve years. Something like that."

"How do you know? Your personnel file says you've only been in the country for four, and nobody else I've spoken to has mentioned it."

Stupid, stupid Rania. This was why I shouldn't try to hold a sensible conversation when I'd barely had any sleep for three days.

"I guess I must have heard a rumour."

"Why do I get the feeling you're holding something back?"

"I don't know, okay? I've answered all your questions, I'm behind on my work, and while I'm very sorry that Mr. Weston found Helene's mutilated body in this building because no father should have to go through that, her death wasn't anything to do with me."

My chair juddered across the carpeted floor as I pushed it back, ready to leave, but Will didn't move. Instead, he fixed me with those dark, bottomless eyes, and the intensity of his gaze heightened the fear I'd been fighting against for the past two weeks.

What just happened?