Rania Algafari never asked to be different, and when she escaped the war in Syria and moved to the UK, her only goal was to live her life in peace. Get up, go to work, avoid talking to the dead - that sort of thing.
But not everyone dies quietly, an...
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"Did you find the lost dog?" RJ asked.
"Yeah."
"Want a beer?"
"Yeah."
"Thought I'd order hookers tonight. You want one or two?"
"Yeah."
RJ slammed the lid on my laptop, ignoring my glare.
"What the fuck?" I growled.
"I'm the one who should be asking that question, Will. You've been on a different planet this evening. Girl trouble? That blonde from last night?"
No, well, yes. Valerie, the blonde, had messaged me three times today and called twice. She might have been hot in the sack, but I didn't need that kind of clingy.
"The blonde's history."
"Shame. She made good coffee."
"Why don't you ask her out, then?"
"Sloppy seconds? Not my thing, man." I moved to open my laptop again, but RJ kept his hand on the top. "What's up? Tell Auntie RJ all about it."
RJ was Randall James Wilkinson-Shields, my best mate since we'd got detention together on our first day of boarding school for putting a live mouse in the French teacher's pencil case. Not our fault nobody locked the biology lab at lunchtime. Rather than become known as Randy the Third for our entire school career, he'd shortened his name to RJ Shields and played a lot of rugby to avoid claiming the "geek" crown for his love of computers.
And now he was my housemate.
Well, sort of. RJ's father had bought him the three-bedroom townhouse as a gift for passing his university entrance exam, while mine kicked me out of the house for choosing the police academy over a career in law, and I'd been camping out in RJ's spare room ever since. Eight years on, and we bickered like an old married couple.
And if I didn't talk to him, he'd change the Wi-Fi password until I did. I sat back in my chair and sighed.
"I got offered a new case."
"And? What's the problem? You need the work, yes?"
I did, so badly I couldn't afford to turn any job away. And that bothered me.
When I didn't reply, RJ drummed his fingers on the desk. "Cheating husband? Stolen lawnmower? Another missing pet? You know those are your favourite."
Yeah, right. I'd spent the past fortnight tracking down Muffy, my godmother's best friend's elderly poodle who'd taken fright at some fireworks and run off on her evening walk. Another little old lady had claimed ownership under the "finders keepers" rule, and I'd got caught in the crossfire as the two women hurled doggy treats at each other. Then Muffy bit me on the arm when I picked her up.
