The Emily Swanson Series: Complete Collection Books 1-5 + Bonus Short Stories

By Malcolm Richards

GET THE COMPLETE EMILY SWANSON SERIES IN THIS GRIPPING BOX SET.

 

Five suspense-filled murder mysteries, plus two bonus short stories—featuring British private detective Emily Swanson.

 

"Electrifying... Should surely be on TV." — The Bookseller

 

BOOK 1: NEXT TO DISAPPEAR

When former teacher Emily Swanson moves into a new London home, she begins to investigate the previous owner's disappearance—but nothing can prepare her for the truth. And the closer Emily gets to the troubled nurse's bone-chilling secret, the closer she gets to terrible danger.

 

BOOK 2: MIND FOR MURDER

Emotionally scarred by her encounter with a psychopath, Emily visits a remote retreat named Meadow Pines. It's the perfect place to recover—until one of the guests is found dead. Now Emily must dig into the retreat's sinister past and unearth what lies beneath. Because there's a murderer at Meadow Pines, who's about to kill again.

 

BOOK3: TRAIL OF POISON

When the body of an environmentalist is pulled from the River Thames, his widow turns to rookie P.I. Emily Swanson for help. But as Emily's investigation leads her to the mysterious Valence Industries, a case of accidental death takes a dangerous turn. Out of her depth and with the body count rising, Emily must expose the truth—before more innocent people die.

 

BOOK 4: WATCH YOU SLEEP

Someone called The Witness is terrorizing a young family in their suburban home. P.I. Emily Swanson is hired to investigate. But as she draws closer to the identity of The Witness, she begins to question the vulnerable family's story—and finds her life in grave danger.

 

BOOK 5: KILL FOR LOVE

When a shy student is beaten to death, her classmate Bridget is the chief suspect. With no motive or history of violence, Bridget's role in the crime doesn't add up. Until Emily's investigation leads to a horrifying discovery—and she becomes the target of a sick and deadly game.

 

Grab the box set today and dive into this chilling murder mystery series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm House Books
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781914452239

Malcolm Richards

Malcolm Richards writes mystery suspense fiction focusing on everyday people placed in extraordinary circumstances. Born in Cornwall in 1974, Malcolm has worked as a reading recovery teacher, a nurture group leader teaching children with complex behavioural and emotional needs, and as a teacher of creative writing. Malcolm lives and writes in South East London.

Book preview

The Emily Swanson Series

CONTENTS

Books by Malcolm Richards

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Next to Disappear

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

The True Crime Behind: Next to Disappear

Mind for Murder

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

The True Crime Behind: Mind for Murder

Trail of Poison

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

The True Crime Behind: Trail of Poison

Blue Christmas

Malcolm Richards

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Watch You Sleep

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

The True Crime Behind: Watch You Sleep

Little White Lies

Malcolm Richards

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Kill for Love

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

The true crime behind: Kill for Love

Get Two Free Books

Books by Malcolm Richards

About the Author

BOOKS BY MALCOLM RICHARDS

PI Blake Hollow

Circle of Bones

Down in the Blood

The Devil’s Cove Trilogy

The Cove

Desperation Point

The Devil’s Gate

The Emily Swanson Series

Next to Disappear

Mind for Murder

Trail of Poison

Watch You Sleep

Kill for Love

Standalones

The Hiding House

Prey for Night

THE EMILY SWANSON SERIES

COMPLETE COLLECTION: BOOKS 1-5 + BONUS SHORT STORIES

MALCOLM RICHARDS

Storm House Books

First published in 2022 by Storm House Books

Copyright © 2015, 2016, 2019, 2020, 2022 Malcolm Richards

The right of Malcolm Richards to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

eBook ISBN 978-1-914452-23-9

www.stormhousebooks.com

This book is written in UK English.

Sign up to Malcolm’s Readers Club newsletter and get two free books.

Tap the image or visit:

www.malcolmrichardsauthor.com/readersclub

Next To Disappear

PROLOGUE

Someone was following her. She was sure of it.

Hurrying along the winding lane, her flat shoes slapping on the tarmac, she glanced between the trees of the woodland that grew up on both sides. Long shadows snaked around the trunks, melting into each other, forming one amorphous shape. Only moments ago, she’d heard twigs snapping and branches rustling on her left. Her first thought was that it had been a rabbit or a fox. But then her mind had started whispering terrible things in her ear. Someone’s there. They’re watching you. They know what you’ve been doing.

She quickened her pace. Soon, it would be dark and she would be vulnerable. But if she could make it to the main road and the bus shelter, she could get to someplace safe.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the grand old manor house in the near distance. The gardens lay still. A few vehicles sat on the gravel drive, all unoccupied. No one was coming after her. It was her mind playing tricks, that was all. The conversation she’d had back at the house was planting seeds of paranoia. She’d been warned to stop. To keep her mouth shut. But it was much too late for that.

The path twisted to the left. The woodland shadows reached the treeline and stretched long fingers towards her. Fear pricked her skin. Fresh tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

How had she been so blind? All this time, she’d thought she’d been doing good. Helping. Supporting. Bringing peace. But now all she saw was the horror of it all. She’d been so naïve!

Tears came, spilling down her pale white skin and painting black spots on the blue cotton of her uniform.

A loud snap splintered the air. It had come from the woodland, just up ahead.

Maybe it wasn’t her imagination after all.

She broke into a run. Above her, the sky was bruised purple and smeared with bloody streaks. Up ahead, the path twisted again, coiling like a snake.

She ran faster, risking a second glance over her shoulder, seeing only trees and asphalt and swarming shadows. Her lungs were burning, her eyes stinging. Panic was rising up inside her like an evil spirit.

But there was the mouth of the lane and the road beyond. Her escape. She flung herself towards it, almost tripping over her feet as she stumbled to safety.

Relief flooding her veins, she slowed her pace to a hurried walk and drew in deep breaths. The bus shelter was just up ahead, next to an elevated pedestrian walkway that spanned the road. She glanced up, hoping to see people. But there was no one. Not even a car on the road.

She was alone out here. Alone with darkness falling fast. Or maybe she wasn’t alone at all. She shot a glance back at the mouth of the lane. There was someone there, standing in the shadows. No, it was her eyes playing tricks, just like her mind.

She turned back to the bus shelter, where a single yellow light illuminated like a beacon. Pulling out her phone, she checked the time. 8:48 p.m. Her bus would be here in five minutes. Five long minutes in which anything could happen.

Reaching the shelter, she pressed herself up against the glass, her breaths heaving in and out. Four minutes until the bus arrived. She prayed it would be on time.

Where was she going? She could go home. To him. To another beating. But he might be able to help her put things right. Or she could run, maybe go to her parents. If she could get to an airport.

Three minutes.

Vehicle headlights appeared in the near distance, growing closer with each passing second. She held her breath, hoping that it was her bus. The vehicle came closer, the roar of the engine filling her ears. The car shot past. She watched its rear lights fading fast, dread climbing up her throat. Silence resumed. Until something moved in the bushes.

Blood rushing in her ears, she spun around. Nothing was there. She made a decision; a bad one. Finding his number, she hit the call button on the phone screen, then pressed the phone to her ear.

Two minutes.

He picked up after three rings.

Where the hell are you? he growled, his voice dripping with anger.

She glanced at the mouth of the lane, then shook her head.

I’m at the bus stop, she said, her accent laced with a Germanic twang. Are you at home?

I told you to stay here, but you didn’t listen. You never do. That big mouth of yours is nothing but trouble.

Please, she said. I’m scared. I don’t want to fight.

You should have thought about that before. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you to mind your own business.

Please . . . I’m coming home and then I think we should leave.

I’m not going anywhere. You dug your own grave. As far as I’m concerned you’re on your own.

More headlights appeared in the distance. She squinted, trying to make out the vehicle. Her stomach fluttered as it came closer. It was her bus.

Are you still there? she said, breathing into the phone.

The line crackled. She glanced over her shoulder at the mouth of the lane, then along the road, where the bus was gradually making its way towards her.

Are you there? she said again, panic making her voice shrill.

A sound rustled behind her.

She twisted around. A towering figure burst from the shadows. Before she could scream, a powerful hand clamped over her mouth. An arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her from the ground.

I’m right here, a voice whispered in her ear.

Then she was carried, kicking and squealing, into the trees.

The bus drove past the empty shelter. Then it was silent and dark.

1

She was drowning, pulled under by limbs and bodies, swept along by currents of voices, music, and car engines. Dark shadows circled her like hungry sharks. Hands and elbows pushed and shoved. Exhaust fumes clogged her throat. This was the old part of the city. There were no smooth walls here, no towers made of steel and glass. This was all shadows and sculptures, buttresses and winding alleys; Victorian London hiding among the skyscrapers.

The crowd surged and spat the woman out, leaving her at the mouth of a narrow street. She paused for a minute, counting to four as she inhaled through her nose, to seven as she held her breath, then to eight as she exhaled through her mouth.

The early November air chilled her bones as she moved along the street, checking the address she had written on notepaper, until she stood in front of a tall apartment building. A plaque above the entrance read: The Holmeswood. A woman in her early fifties and dressed head to toe in chocolate fur was waiting outside.

Paulina Blanchard? The younger woman’s voice was a whisper above the street noise. She was pretty: mid-twenties, pale skin and green eyes, blonde hair scooped into a winter hat. My name’s Emily Swanson. I’m here for the viewing?

Paulina nodded, then opened the file she was holding in a gloved hand and took her time to slide her finger down the appointments list.

Emily Swanson . . . she said.

Sorry to keep you waiting in the cold. I lost my way. Emily smiled uncertainly as Paulina looked her up and down.

Yes, well, you should have been here at two. I have another viewing in fifteen minutes with a married couple, financial types. So, I’m afraid we’ll have to make this quick.

The letting agent pulled open the grand door of the building. As they stepped inside, the outside world fell silent.

As you can see this is the lobby. Paulina removed her hat to reveal a head of tight, salt and pepper curls. Mailboxes are on your left. The lift is on your right.

The exterior architecture may have been Victorian, but the interior was distinctly Art Deco. Faded red and white tiles made a sprawling grid beneath Emily’s feet, while two great pillars flanked her sides. A stained glass design of birds and flowers filled the space above the lift doors.

It’s beautiful. Emily’s gaze climbed the sprawling staircase that sat in the centre of the lobby.

Will your partner be joining us? Paulina asked, eyeing Emily.

No partner. It’s just me.

You’re aware of how much this apartment costs to rent?

I can afford it.

I see. Any children?

Emily’s fingers glided over the grooves of the lift doors then slipped inside her coat pockets. She glanced at the letting agent, ignoring the sudden pounding of her heart. Slowly, she shook her head.

Well, there are thirteen apartments in the building, Paulina continued, arching an eyebrow. Four on each floor, with the penthouse at the top.

Thirteen? Isn’t that meant to be bad luck for buildings?

That’s why there’s a 12A, and the penthouse, 12B. You’ll be looking at 12A. Paulina tapped her wrist. That’s three minutes up already and we haven’t even made it upstairs.

The lift was slow and moaned like a rheumatic old man as the two women rode in silence to the fourth floor. Emily felt Paulina’s steely gaze pressing into her skin. She didn’t fit the letting agent’s profile, that much was obvious. But instead of meeting the woman’s glare, Emily kept her eyes glued to the doors. After a long, excruciating minute, the lift ground to a halt with a startling screech of brakes. The doors slid open and Paulina brushed past, taking off along a gloomy corridor with faded blue carpet and a window at the far end that let in little light.

The tenant will be at work right now, she said. Stopping outside of apartment 12A, she unlocked the door and held it open for Emily, who thanked her quietly as she stepped inside.

A small chandelier of imitation crystals hung from the high ceiling of an L-shaped hallway. A coat stand stood in the corner, its arms empty like winter branches.

There are original floorboards in all rooms except the kitchen, Paulina said, continuing her rehearsed sales speech as she shut the door and took the lead once more. On your left, you’ll find ample storage cupboards. Doors up ahead lead to the living room, bedroom, and bathroom. Access to the kitchen is via the living room. Shall we?

Emily trailed behind as they moved along the hallway, her eyes fixed on Paulina’s back. She didn’t like the woman. She didn’t like the way she kept looking at her. Judging her. And she didn’t like the questions she was asking.

Up ahead, Paulina opened a door and peered inside. Her face reddened. I’m sorry, but there appears to be a spot of mess. I’d specifically reminded the tenant to keep the place tidy for today’s viewings, but clearly he doesn’t know the meaning of the word!

It’s no bother, Emily replied, hiding a smile as she imagined the angry phone call that the tenant would no doubt receive later.

The living room was tall and wide. Three arched windows stretched from ceiling to floor, overlooking the city. Two leather sofas sat on one side, a dining table and chairs on the other. In the centre of the room, stacks of open boxes and rolls of packing tape covered the floor, along with a mountain of the current tenant’s belongings.

What a view! Paulina enthused, directing Emily’s attention away from the mess and towards the windows.

Emily moved over to the centre window and pressed her face against the glass. Down below, streams of people flooded the pavement, their bodies bobbing around like microbes in a Petri dish.

Why is the tenant moving out? she asked.

Behind her, Paulina shifted her weight from one foot to the other. His wife left him. She was German, so I imagine she went back home. No point in him staying alone in a big place like this. Far too expensive. You have a job, I presume?

Emily returned her curious gaze to the array of belongings. The remnants of a life together did not make such a big pile, she thought.

Not yet. I’m relocating.

Oh?

Emily gave the letting agent a nervous glance, but she dared not elaborate. Besides, all Paulina Blanchard needed to know was if Emily could afford the rent. Which she could. For now.

The letting agent furled her brow, then flipped through the pages of her file. Well, as I mentioned, it’s not the cheapest of places. We’ll need to run some checks—bank references, credit scoring, that sort of thing—but I’m sure you wouldn’t be wasting my time. Speaking of which, we should see the rest of the apartment. The kitchen is right through here.

Emily watched the woman skirt around the tenant’s belongings and disappear through a pair of saloon doors at the far end of the room. She watched the doors swing back and forth like pendulums. Then she returned her gaze to the windows and the cityscape beyond. She liked this apartment. She liked it a lot. And as long as Paulina Blanchard didn’t find out who Emily Swanson really was or what she’d done, it would be hers.

Your new home, Emily whispered, as an anxious knot began to form in her stomach.

2

Grunts and groans ricocheted off the lobby walls as men in overalls heaved furniture towards the staircase. Some insisted on using the lift for the larger pieces, but there was barely enough room to fit in a few boxes and an upended coffee table.

Emily worried about the old lift as it creaked and rattled its way up and down the building. She didn’t like the way some of the men kept flashing her accusatory looks, as if she took pleasure in watching them lug furniture up a hundred steps. If Lewis had been here he would have laughed and reminded her that the men were getting paid.

Watch it!

From her position on the staircase, Emily saw one of the two men carrying her tan Winchester sofa momentarily lose his grip. His partner lurched forward and slammed his shoulder into a pillar. Emily winced. The injured man glanced up and shot her a glare, then muttered something that made his workmate laugh.

Emily returned to her apartment. In the living room, winter sunlight illuminated trails of dusty footprints and crept over the broken boxes, newspapers, and clutter that had been left behind by the former tenant. Emily frowned at the mess. The place should have been professionally cleaned before she’d moved in, but she couldn’t help wondering if this was more than an oversight. Paulina Blanchard hadn’t liked her. Even when Emily’s references had all checked out, the woman had seemed almost disappointed.

Or perhaps you’re just being paranoid, Emily whispered as she headed into the kitchen.

A pyramid of boxes sat on the floor. The one on top was labelled: Bathroom. Another had a corner crushed in. The knot in her chest growing tighter, Emily straightened and glanced around the room. It was a good-sized kitchen with a tiled floor, high ceilings, and ample storage space. Back at the cottage, her kitchen had been small and cluttered, with an old coal oven that was expensive to fuel and a pain to keep running. But she had loved it.

It was all gone now. The cottage. The village. Her old life. From today, the city was her home, whether she liked it or not.

An unpleasant sensation chilled the back of Emily’s neck. The kitchen window behind the sink was open a few inches. She pushed down on the frame but it wouldn’t budge. Now that was two things Emily would have to speak to Paulina Blanchard about.

A large crash from the living room made her flinch. Peeking over the swing doors she saw that her sofa had arrived. The men who had carried it were busy huffing and puffing and wiping beads of sweat from their red, angry faces. Emily wondered if she should apologise or perhaps make them some tea. But then they would slow down. And she wanted them gone. Because a familiar tingling had started in her fingers and toes, and her chest was becoming unbearably tight. Soon, her scalp would start to itch and then the panic would come to tear the breath from her lungs.

More men were coming, carrying armchairs and her dining table. She felt their eyes on her. Could hear them all whispering and sniggering. All blaming her. Just like everyone else had blamed her before.

Emily pressed herself up against the kitchen wall and squeezed her eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

An hour later, she got her wish.

Stillness descended upon the apartment. The only sound was the soft hiss of the radiators pumping heat into the rooms. Feeling calmer, Emily pressed her face against the living room window, watching the sun cast the city in dark tangerine as it sank behind the towers and turrets of the grand old buildings. Across the street was a promenade of shops, where a cosy looking Italian café was open and a couple were leaning into each other at a table in the window.

Anxiety fluttered in Emily’s chest. Her stomach grumbled. Unwelcome thoughts crept into her mind. Shaking them away, she returned to the kitchen.

Soon, crockery sat in clean cupboards, and pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall. Outside, night had descended, moss green and bereft of stars. Emily yawned, but even though her body yearned for rest, her mind crackled like fluorescence.

Walking the length of the apartment, she entered the bedroom. Her bed had been shoved up against the far wall, opposite a row of built-in wardrobes with mirror doors. Glancing around, Emily wondered what she would do with all this space. If Lewis had been here, she wouldn’t have noticed the emptiness.

But Lewis was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

Eyeing the suitcases and boxes on the floor, Emily pulled open a wardrobe door and peered at the darkness inside. It was for the best, really. Lewis wouldn’t have liked it in the city. Besides, she’d moved to London to start her life over. To wipe the slate clean. If only she could wipe her memory, too. If only—

Emily frowned.

Sitting in the shadows of the wardrobe were three bulky plastic sacks. They did not belong to her. She had packed up the cottage herself, sealing every box and crate without any help. Curious, she poked one of the sacks with her index finger. Whatever it contained was soft and thankfully unmoving. Pulling on the sack’s drawstrings, Emily carefully peeled back the edges.

A grey knitted cardigan stared up at her. There was more clothing beneath, each item carefully ironed and folded. Setting the cardigan aside, she removed a blue and white blouse and held it up. It was part of a uniform; something medical.

Removing the other sacks, Emily opened them up and found more women’s clothing inside. It was possible they’d been mixed up with her own belongings by the removal company. But then she remembered what Paulina Blanchard had told her about the previous tenant. How strange, she thought, pulling out more garments and laying them out like bodies on the floor. Had the man’s wife been in such a rush to leave him that she’d left her clothes behind? Had their marriage been so unhappy?

She stared into the wardrobe. There was something else there. Something large and rectangular propped up against the back wall. Emily reached inside and pulled it out. She gasped. It was an oil painting set in a wooden frame. Filling the canvas were the head and shoulders of a middle-aged, blonde-haired woman with eyes the colour of a crisp morning sky, a sharp, aquiline nose, and thin, taut lips. But it wasn’t the woman’s cold, unsettling gaze that had unsettled Emily. It was her neck, which was elongated and swanlike, as if someone had throttled her so violently they’d stretched it beyond natural human dimensions.

Emily tried to look away, but it was as if the woman’s gaze had turned her to stone. Until a sudden dizziness knocked her off balance.

Dropping the painting, she staggered from the bedroom and into the living room, where she grabbed her bag from the dining table and pulled out a small plastic bottle. She wrestled with the lid, then tapped a pill onto a trembling palm. Tipping her head back, she swallowed it down, felt it stick in her throat.

Her heart was thumping now. Her chest grew tighter by the second. Finding the sofa, she lay down on her side and tucked up her knees. She waited for the feeling to pass. For the medication to reach her brain. But the panic that had been building all day came crashing down like a tsunami.

What had she done? Why had she come to London alone, where she had no friends or family? Where she was a stranger.

I could disappear, she thought. I could die and no one would ever know.

But she knew exactly why she’d come here; she had nowhere else to go.

Emily stared out at the city, feeling small and terrified, until the diazepam finally kicked in and made her eyelids grow heavy. Sleep came, bringing a dream in which she ran through fields of spoiled crops. Something was moving behind her, coming up fast. Women’s clothing lay strewn between the ploughed rows, all soiled and sodden and forgotten.

She woke with a start on the sofa. It took her a moment to remember where she was. Her brain slowly catching up with her eyes, Emily checked the wall clock. It was just past nine a.m. She’d slept for twelve hours. Her joints aching, she went to the bathroom and showered, then swallowed her daily antidepressant. Breakfast was coffee, which she sipped at the bedroom window while watching a river of traffic flow by in the street below. Moments later, rain began to fall and a multitude of umbrellas popped up, floating away like waterlilies as pedestrians made their way to work, irritable and sluggish on Monday morning.

Emily’s eyes moved across the street, lingering on the Italian coffee shop. Her stomach let out a low groan.

The clothing she’d discovered last night was still on the carpet, next to the strange framed portrait of the woman with the stretched neck. Shivering, Emily gathered up the clothes and stuffed them back inside the plastic sacks. Then she picked up the portrait and stared into the woman’s frozen blue eyes. A sudden, loud rapping broke the spell she was under. Leaning the painting against the bedroom wall, Emily tiptoed through the apartment. As she nervously unhooked the chain lock and opened the front door, the gloom of the hallway seeped inside.

Are you all right, dear?

An elderly woman smiled up at her. She was small in stature, barely reaching five feet tall. Time had warped her spine, fusing the vertebrae together so that she stood like a question mark, her head bobbing up and down in front of her shoulders.

Emily returned her gaze.

Can I help you? she said.

Me and Andrew were just saying we must go and say hello to the new neighbour, make them feel welcome. The woman’s voice was cracked and raspy, her accent carved from the bricks and mortar of the city. Because it’s always nice to meet new neighbours and you know that never happens in a place like this. Most people are too busy to spare a minute and say hello to a little old lady like me. But I’ll still give them a wave. It reminds them life isn’t all about running around, that sometimes it’s good just to stop for a moment to appreciate what you’ve amounted. Goodness, I’m rabbiting on already and I haven’t even told you my name. I’m Harriet Golding. I live right opposite you in number Eleven.

Emily introduced herself as she glanced at the open doorway across the hall.

I’m very pleased to meet you, Emily. Now, why don’t you take a break from all that unpacking and let me get to know you a little over a nice cup of tea?

I—well . . . it’s just that there’s so much to do.

Those boxes aren’t going anywhere, Harriet said. Come on, humour an old lady and have some tea. I won’t keep you long. When Emily showed no signs of moving, the elderly woman beckoned her with a papery hand. I promise I won’t bite. The teeth went years ago!

Before Emily could change her mind, she found herself standing in Harriet Golding’s hallway, breathing in dust and a musty odour. Behind her, Harriet closed the door and slipped a chain lock into place.

Can’t be too careful these days, she rasped, laughter taking its toll on her lungs. You never know who might be lurking about.

Emily stared at the piles of newspapers and bric-a-brac that filled the space. Beneath her feet, a once red and gold carpet was now faded and threadbare.

You sit yourself right down, Harriet said, leading Emily into a living room half the size of her own. Towers of books covered a large table. Hordes of china animals huddled together on shelves like livestock awaiting slaughter.

Excuse the mess. The elderly woman ushered Emily towards a tattered sofa. My Andrew’s always got his nose in a book. If you ask me, it’s a waste of precious time. Won’t be a minute.

Emily stared in awe at the surrounding chaos. There was a door she hadn’t noticed. As she sat, wondering what lay beyond, the door swung open and a man stepped out. He was tall and heavy-looking, his dark trousers pulled high up over his pudding bowl midriff. His dark hair, which was combed into an immaculate side parting, matched the neatly trimmed moustache above his narrow lips. Emily found it difficult to age him. Older than forty but younger than sixty.

Mother didn’t tell me we were having visitors, he said, gazing at Emily, who quickly stood up.

Something about the man’s eyes made her feel uneasy. She glanced away towards the kitchen door and heard cupboards being opened, followed by the chink of colliding cups and jars. She returned her gaze to the man, who was still in the doorway, his irritation dissolving into nervousness as he picked at a small stain on his vest.

I’m Emily, she said. I just moved in across the hall.

Andrew, the man muttered. Mother already got her claws in you, then? She’ll have you over here every day if you’re not careful. Likes to chat.

His movements stiff and awkward, Andrew stuck out a hand. Emily shook it then watched him wipe his hand on the front of his vest before slipping it back inside his pocket. The space between them filled with cement-like awkwardness. To Emily’s relief, the kitchen door swung open and Harriet returned.

Oh, I see you two have met, she said.

Andrew glared at her. You didn’t tell me we were having company.

Can’t plan for a surprise. Now be a dear and fetch the tea tray.

As Andrew sloped off into the kitchen, Harriet squeezed Emily’s arm and motioned for her to sit. Don’t pay him no attention. He takes good care of me, bless him, but sometimes he behaves like a middle-aged baby. Now, tell me all about yourself, Emily. Who you are and where you come from. And I bet you have a lovely husband on your arm as well, don’t you?

Emily shook her head.

No husband?

It’s just me. In fact, I don’t know anyone here.

A stranger to London, eh? Where did you live before?

Emily hesitated. The countryside.

Did you hear that, Andrew? Emily’s just moved here all on her own! That’s very brave of you, dear.

The old woman patted Emily’s hand while Andrew returned with the tea tray and set it on the table.

Mind you, Harriet continued, watching Andrew pour tea into china cups, you can’t be too careful in London. Living on your own might seem brave, but you hear all sorts of horrible things happening to people. Lord knows there’s been enough trouble in this building without wishing for more. Got a job, have you?

Emily picked up her cup and saucer and took a sip. The tea had a sweet, flowery taste and an instantly calming effect.

I haven’t started looking for one yet.

Give the girl a chance, eh! What’s your profession?

I was a teacher. The words felt like stones in her mouth.

How lovely! Children are so sweet when they’re young, aren’t they? Always speaking their minds like nobody’s business, without a care in the world! But soon as they turn into teenagers, something changes in them. You see all those gangs on the streets, carrying knives and swearing like sailors, and you wonder what’s got into kids today that they need to travel around in packs like dogs, scaring old folk like me. It’s frightening when you think about it, isn’t it Andrew?

Andrew snorted, picked up a book, and began to read.

Poor Andrew, Harriet continued. He was walking home one evening when a gang of heathens appeared out of the shadows and attacked him! He had to have stitches, didn’t you, dear? And the police never caught the scoundrels, did they? Probably didn’t even look if you ask me. It’s enough to make an old woman scared to leave her home! I bet you don’t have all those troubles with teenagers in the countryside, do you?

It’s all drugs and videogames these days, Andrew said, the words shooting from his mouth in quick succession.

Do you want children someday, Emily? Harriet set out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Lord knows, I’ll be dead in my grave before I’m ever made a grandmother.

Emily stiffened and shook her head.

Fancy that, a young woman like you not wanting children. What’s that all about, then?

Emily froze, her mouth open, the flesh under her fingernails turning white against the teacup.

Oh, don’t mind me, dear. Harriet waved a dismissive hand. Just tell me to keep to my own affairs. Andrew always does, don’t you?

Emily set down the cup with a loud clatter, suddenly wanting nothing more than to go back home—not to the apartment across the hall, but back to the safety of her cottage. Except it wasn’t her cottage anymore, and it hadn’t been safe for a long time.

Harriet reached over and patted Emily on the knee. Oh look, I’ve gone and upset the girl. I am sorry, dear.

It’s fine. Emily felt tears filling her ducts, her throat hardening. But she would not cry. Not in front of strangers. Instead, she forced a smile to her lips. How long have you lived in this building, Harriet?

The old woman looked around the room, as if all the years she had spent here were scattered among the books and newspapers. Why, since I was ten years old.

Emily leaned back on the chair. The distraction was working. Tears receded. Her throat relaxed.

"It was during the war. Father couldn’t go off to fight on account of him having one leg. Lost the other in a car accident. Anyway, our house was bombed in the Blitz. Back then, The Holmeswood used to be a hotel. The owner started renting out rooms to those who’d lost everything, so we moved in.

When the war was over, people were still on rations and busy trying to put their lives back together. No one came to stay at The Holmeswood anymore. The owner lost all his money. That’s when Mr Christie stepped in and bought the place.

Intrigued, Emily sipped her tea. Andrew, who had clearly heard the tale a hundred times, dropped his book and picked up another.

My old dad may have lost a leg, Harriet continued, but he was still a fine carpenter. He helped Mr Christie turn the hotel rooms into apartments. To thank him for his fine work, Mr Christie let him buy this one for cheap. Of course, it wasn’t long after that poor Father was murdered.

Emily drew in a shocked breath. Murdered?

Whoever killed him hadn’t even bothered to clean up the mess. Andrew’s eyes appeared over the top of his book. Granddad had been stabbed seventy-two times while taking the lift. His body was dragged across the lobby, out through the back corridors, and thrown out with the rubbish.

Harriet shook her head and sipped her tea.

Apparently, Andrew continued, lowering his book to reveal a gleeful curling of his lips, there was so much blood that it took an entire day to clean it all up.

That’s terrible! Emily gasped. Who killed him?

Harriet raised her hands. No one knows. For all the blood they couldn’t find a single fingerprint. Anyway, after that, my dear old mum was never the same. I met Andrew’s dad, we got married and he moved in here. Mum died soon after. Andrew’s dad passed a few years later. It’s been just me and my boy ever since.

Harriet fell silent. When she looked up again, her eyes were glassy and wet; two deep pools of sad memories.

Emily sat still, at once moved and horrified by her story.

Of course, Andrew said, breaking the silence, his wasn’t the only murder to take place in this building.

Emily stood. I should be going. There’s still so much I have to unpack.

All those boxes to empty and things to put away. I’ve kept you long enough. Harriet struggled to her feet. She was quiet until they reached the apartment door, where she unlatched the lock. It was lovely to meet you, Emily, she said with a smile. You’re welcome here anytime.

Emily thanked her. As she exited the apartment, she slid to a halt. Do you know the couple who lived here before me? Only they’ve left some things behind . . .

Harriet’s face pulled into a frown. Whatever it is, you go ahead and throw it out. Those two won’t be back. And between you and me, I’m glad to have a nice young lady like yourself living here instead.

Oh? What do you mean?

Always shouting, they were. Always fighting. And not a kind word to say to anyone. It’s a wonder nothing bad happened sooner. Well, I’ll let you go. Don’t be a stranger!

Before Emily could ask her to elaborate, the woman shut the door and slid the lock back into place.

Returning to her apartment, Emily set upon the unopened boxes in her living room. As she worked, she thought about the macabre story the Goldings had told. Someone had been murdered in this building. She tried to tell herself it happened years ago and that most buildings could tell a grisly tale or two, but the uneasy feeling that had nestled in her chest still remained.

And what had Harriet said about the couple who’d lived in this very apartment?

Entering her bedroom, Emily stared at the sacks of left behind clothing. She shook her head. Moving to London was meant to be about new beginnings. Any endings—even if they belonged to someone else—were unwelcome.

Five minutes later, Emily stepped from the old lift and into the lobby, dragging the sacks of clothing behind her. She moved behind the staircase and into the darkness of the corridor beyond, where she passed boarded up doors and towers of broken crates, the sacks making drag marks in a carpet of dust. Winter wrapped icy tendrils around her as she shouldered the rear fire door open and stepped outside into a narrow alley. Old newspapers flapped and empty beer cans rattled in the wind. Emily worked quickly, heaving the sacks into the large waste containers that lined the exterior wall. As she returned inside, the fire door slammed shut behind her. The boom it made chased her through the darkened hallway like a malevolent spirit.

Back in her apartment, Emily couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. When she reached the bedroom, she realised why. The painting was still propped up against the wall. The woman with the stretched neck stared at her, those icy blue eyes freezing her to the spot.

Harriet’s words whispered in Emily’s ear. It’s a wonder nothing bad happened sooner . . . 

What had she meant?

3

Tuesday came, bringing an insatiable hunger that gnawed deep into Emily’s stomach. She’d barely eaten since Sunday. If she didn’t head out to buy groceries soon, she would get sick again. Pulling a hat over damp hair and a bag over her shoulder, she left the apartment. A sign announced the lift was out of order, so she took the stairs. One floor down, panic sank its teeth in her.

Get a hold of yourself, she whispered.

Gripping the stair rail, she drew in a deep breath then expelled it in a steady stream. Behind her, the fire door burst open and a tall man in his late twenties with dark reddish brown skin came rushing out. His eyes were cast downward and he was wearing headphones that blasted loud, tinny music. Emily turned, stepping to the side at the last moment.

Sorry! the man said loudly, removing the headphones as he offered her an apologetic smile. Not looking where I’m going as usual. I like to fit in at least one song before I get to work. Customers can be a pain in my neck, so anything to get that smile going, you know? You’ve just moved in, right?

Emily’s mouth hung open. How did you know that?

The man’s smile grew wider. You get to know the faces around here. And Harriet Golding told me all about you.

She did? Emily’s heart raced as she quickly recounted her conversation with the elderly woman. She hadn’t given much away about her personal life. Only that she had moved to the city alone, was currently unemployed, and did not want to have children. Which was plenty of information to start making assumptions about a person.

Well, thanks to Harriet, I already know you’re Emily, the man said. I’m Jerome. I live on the floor below you. Right underneath your apartment, in fact.

Emily stared at his extended hand. Slowly, she reached out and shook it. As they descended the steps together, Jerome continued to talk energetically, telling Emily that he’d lived in The Holmeswood for about a year and that he worked at the Italian café across the road.

"It’s called Il Cuore, which is Italian for ‘the heart’. Just pretentious enough for London, don’t you think? Anyway, the coffee sucks but the service is exceptional."

They reached the foot of the stairs and crossed the red and white tiles of the lobby floor. As they approached the entrance door, Emily’s chest grew tighter. Through the glass she saw hundreds of bodies filing past in an endless train. Beyond them, heavy traffic jammed the road.

Jerome leaned forward and pulled on the door handle, letting in a torrent of noise.

Well, it was great meeting you, Emily, he said, raising his voice. You should stop by for coffee sometime.

With one last warm smile, Jerome waved goodbye and slipped into the crowd.

The door was closing. Emily knew if she was still standing here by the time it shut, she would be going another day without food. Her heart racing, she sucked in a deep breath and ploughed forward. The crowd surged, absorbing her into the stream. All around, people pushed and parried. Cars and buses crawled along the road. Drivers punched horns at racing cyclists. The traffic lights switched to red and pedestrians began crossing the road, pouring into the gaps between the vehicles.

Emily hurried along, counting each panicked breath as she kept up with the crowds. The street came to a crossroads, where hundreds of workers, shoppers, and tourists, all sharing the same grim expression, swamped the pavements and blocked the entrances of the Underground station. Dizzy and breathless, Emily pushed through the bodies, but as she squeezed past each one, another took its place. A side street suddenly swung into view. Forcing her way to the edge of the crowd, she lunged towards it.

The world grew quieter. Emily leaned against the wall, gasping for air and closing her eyes, shutting out the city. In the village, the streets had been quiet and pleasant, paved with cobblestones and decorated with hanging baskets of flowers. People had been warm and welcoming. Emily thought about the villagers. She recounted the names of the people she had known; friends and acquaintances she had grown up with, who had once waved a hand from across the road or stopped to say hello. How quickly they had all turned against her.

In contrast to the large modern stores just metres away on the high street, the winding, narrow alley Emily now stood in contained small boutiques with names she had never heard of. Further along, shoehorned between a French patisserie and a Chinese herbal medicine store, was a supermarket.

It was a cramped affair. The aisles were long and narrow, their shelves stacked right up to the ceiling. Armed with her shopping list, Emily navigated the curious one-way system. As she filled her basket, she calculated the mounting cost and her eyes grew wide with alarm. City life was not only chaotic, it was extortionate, too. She wondered how so many people could afford to live here. And there were so many people.

It wasn’t just the sheer volume that overwhelmed her, it was the fact that everyone was so different. Her sheltered life had been comprised of white working-class farming families, and not one of the children from the school where she had taught had come from outside the local community. What an insular way of living, she thought. One that had almost been the end of her.

Her basket now full, she turned a corner to join the snaking line of customers. As she waited, her mind wandered, finding its way back to Lewis. The entire time she had been holed up in her cottage with reporters surrounding her garden, all Lewis had worried about was if the unwanted attention would affect his chance of promotion at the bank. But it hadn't been his photograph in the newspapers next to vile, accusatory words. It hadn't been his reputation destroyed, his freedom stolen away. Yes, people had stopped and whispered, but he had still been able to walk the streets safe from harm. When Emily had last entered the local supermarket, her hood pulled up in a bid to pass unnoticed, two mothers from her school had dragged her across the aisle by her hair and thrown her into a pyramid of apples.

There was just one person ahead of her now. Two men worked the counter, speaking to each other in a language she didn’t recognise. Emily watched them for a second, then let her eyes wander over shelves of cigarette packets and painkillers, until they came to rest on a public message board.

Among the handwritten postcards advertising rooms to rent and discreet massage services, there was a missing persons notice. The photograph at its centre was grainy black and white, but the person it depicted was unnervingly familiar.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat. The missing woman had short, light hair, thin lips, and intense, haunted eyes that permeated the paper to prick Emily’s skin. As she reached the counter and one of the men began scanning and packing her groceries, she stepped closer to the poster and read the information.

Alina Engel. 43 years old. 5’ 4. 60 kg. Reported missing after failing to return home from an evening shift at the Ever After Care Foundation. Alina, who is of German descent, called her husband at around nine p.m. on Monday, 24th August, to say she was waiting for the 247 bus on Romford Road, IG6. Co-workers confirmed seeing Alina leave at 8:30 p.m. At the time of her disappearance, she was wearing a blue and white nurse’s uniform and carrying a red backpack. If you have any information or know of Alina’s whereabouts, please call the following number . . . 

Emily stared in stunned silence. She read the words again then studied the missing woman’s picture intently.

You know her? the shopkeeper asked.

No. Do you?

People come in and out every day. They all look the same to me, he said. I should take it down. It’s been three months—that woman won’t be found.

Behind them, waiting customers began to grumble. Emily paid the shopkeeper and turned to leave. She stopped and stared at the poster one last time, trying to memorise Alina Engel’s features. If only her phone had been in her purse and not in one of the kitchen drawers, she would have been able to take a picture.

The street was busier now, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was fixed on the missing woman’s face, holding it in a freeze frame as she threw herself into the crowds.

Back at The Holmeswood, someone had taped a notice across the lift doors: Get This Fixed! Some Of Us Can’t Use The Stairs!

By the time Emily made it back to the apartment, her heart was threatening to punch a hole through her chest. Slamming the front door closed behind her, she dropped the grocery bags on the floor and hurried into her bedroom.

The portrait was still there, leaning against the wall. Emily stared at it, her eyes growing wide and round. Alina Engel stared right back.

4

You’ve got lots of space in here for just one person.

Harriet sat at the dining table, peering around the living room with an inquisitive eye. Emily had been busy. There were books on shelves, rugs on floors, and prints hanging on walls featuring an array of striking landscapes—a dense forest in the grip of autumn, a rickety jetty protruding over a tranquil lake—but there were no family photographs. No people of any kind.

It’s probably too big, Emily said, sliding a cup and saucer towards her guest, who immediately began to stir spoons of sugar into her tea.

A nice husband would take up some room.

So would another armchair.

Harriet cackled. Someone’s had man trouble.

Shifting in her seat, Emily looked out the window. Winter sun bounced off the glass, creating a glare. The last thing she wanted to talk about right now was Lewis.

Men are always trouble, Harriet said, giving Emily a wry wink. They either want you to be the servant to their master, or they want you to be their nursemaid. They’re like babies, never growing up. But I suppose we must put up with them. Lord knows who else will.

Assuming every woman wants to be in a relationship, Emily said. And that all women are attracted to men.

Harriet shook her head. I don’t know anything about those modern relationships. Have you met Jerome yet? He’s very modern. Emily frowned as Harriet dropped her voice to a whisper. "He’s one of those. Had a gentleman friend living with him until recently, went by the name of Darnell. Just goes to show, it doesn’t matter what side your bread is buttered, if there’s men involved you’ve got your work cut out."

Emily nodded. What about Alina Engel?

Eh? You mean Allie? Oh yes, her husband was trouble, all right. Karl Henry—Mister Big Man—always walking around like he was something important. The amount of times I heard him shouting, it’s a wonder he had any voice left. That poor woman should have left him soon as he raised a hand to her.

Emily flinched. Her husband hit her?

Harriet sat back in the chair and pursed her lips. All I know is that one time, me and Andrew were coming back from the shops when we bumped into Allie on the stairs. She was on the way to work—some kind of nurse, she was—and her lip was all fat on one side, with a big purple bruise on her chin. I asked her if she was all right, and you know what? She jumped like I'd screamed at the top of my lungs! And she didn't say a word. She just carried on walking as if we were invisible. It was a terrible thing to see, poor woman.

Emily frowned. It was disturbing to think that, not so long ago, her apartment had been home to violence and abuse. In this very room, the bedroom, maybe both, a man had raised his hand and brought it down hard against his wife's face. She wondered if it left a residue; all that negative energy seeping into the walls and floors.

Allie was never one for talk, Harriet continued. Oh, she’d say hello and ask how you were, but you couldn’t ask her anything personal, not even when she was on her own—which was hardly ever. And it wasn’t a language problem because she could talk better English than most people I know. It’s a shame, really. She seemed like a nice lady.

Pushing her cup to one side, Emily leaned forward over the table. Paulina Blanchard, the letting agent, told me that Karl Henry was moving out because his wife had left him. That she’d gone back to Germany. Today in the supermarket, I saw a missing persons notice. It was for his wife. For Alina.

Harriet raised an eyebrow. All I know is what that pig told me—that she’d run off and left him. And you know what I said to him? I said, ‘Well it’s about time, too!’ He didn’t like that, not one bit, the nasty piece of work.

But he reported her missing. It said on the poster that Alina called him on her way home from work, just before she disappeared.

It’s the first I’ve heard about it. Harriet drained the contents of her cup then leaned back on the chair.

But if she was reported missing the police must have come around. Surely they would have been asking if anyone had seen her.

The elderly woman folded her arms across her chest. I don’t talk to the police. See how they treated my poor Andrew when he got attacked. I don’t talk to them and I don’t trust them. If you ask me, they’re all as bent as each other.

Emily raised an eyebrow, surprised that Harriet hadn’t been first in line to glean information from the police. What about the other tenants?

I don’t talk to the other two on this floor. Apparently, they’re too busy to crack a smile. You could always ask Jerome. He lives right below. Probably heard every fight that went on.

It’s strange though, isn’t it? Emily said, half to herself. If your wife was missing, wouldn’t you want to stay right here in case she came back?

Men, said Harriet, with a disapproving shake of her head.

5

The café was a cramped affair, forcing its customers to hunch over the tables with their knees pulled together and their elbows tucked in. The space itself was pleasant enough, with varnished floorboards and terracotta walls decorated with prints of sun-blistered landscapes. The aroma of coffee was rich and spicy, with a twist of cinnamon and a hint of chocolate.

Backed up in the far corner, Emily nervously watched the growing line of office workers on their breaks, while two harassed-looking baristas stood behind the counter taking orders and gesturing to each other in heated Italian. Dressed head to toe in black, Jerome worked the tables, flashing his smile in exchange for tips. Noticing Emily, he waved and mouthed: One minute.

Emily nodded then looked away. She was feeling tired and sluggish; the aftereffects of last night’s sleeping pill. Seized by insomnia, she’d lain awake for hours, voices and traffic sounds still floating outside her bedroom window, as myriad thoughts churned her mind. Where was Alina Engel? What had happened to her? How was Lewis getting on in his new house and with his promotion at the bank? Then, without meaning to, Emily thought about her mother and a great wave of grief came crashing down on her. In the middle of that grief came Phillip.

She had managed to banish his name from her mind since arriving in London, but in the darkness it screamed at her until she knew she would not sleep unaided.

Hello there, neighbour. Jerome had bounded up to Emily’s table and was now standing over her, notebook in one hand and pen poised in the other. It’s good to see you again. Are you all unpacked?

Emily blinked away more unwelcome thoughts and fumbled with a newspaper that had been left behind by the table’s previous occupant. I’m getting there.

Wonderful. When’s the housewarming?

Oh, I’m not sure that I —

Relax, I’m kidding. Jerome smiled as he ran a damp cloth over the table’s sticky surface. So, what can I get you?

Emily squinted at the menu board above the baristas’ serving area. Coffee, please.

What kind?

Um . . . Regular?

Arching an eyebrow, Jerome jotted down her order. You’re not from around here, are you? I’ll be right back.

Emily watched him slink between the tables and disappear behind the counter. Unfolding the newspaper, she flipped through the pages, skipping past stories of corruption, murder, and sexual assault, until she came to the classified ads. She skimmed through the job sectors, mentally crossing off the vacancies for which she lacked the qualifications or experience. The few jobs that remained included modelling for ‘exotic’ photoshoots, graveyard-shift office cleaning, and temporary secretarial positions.

Jerome returned. "One regular coffee and a little treat on the house. Ossi Dei Morti—Bones of the Dead."

Thank you. Emily said, as he set down a plate of pale white cookies in front of her, then nodded at the newspaper.

Job hunting?

Just seeing what’s out there.

What do you do? Jerome asked. Wait, let me guess. I'm good at this. You're a librarian.

Emily thought about becoming a librarian. It would be quiet and calm. She could lose herself between the pages of books like she used to when her life had been meaningful and ordinary.

Okay, so not a librarian. Jerome stared at her intensely, making her squirm. But it’s something similar.

She picked up one of the cookies and examined it with the grim fascination of a coroner. What’s it like being a waiter?

"Minimum wage, long hours, the exquisite charm of the general public—it’s a real winner. Job satisfaction on