Page 5 of Land of Ghosts

“Yes. The house was full of squatters. People who occupy a house illegally and sometimes trash it. Like this one.”

“Squatters?” My mind tried to fit the word into the spotless space where I stood, but I couldn’t imagine this hallway being squalid and rundown. It was too clean, too tidy, too perfect—very much like Doctor Dyl.

“Hard to believe, I know. But it was a squat for a few years. My aunt, who owned this house, just couldn’t be bothered with the place. We had fun evicting them.” His mouth dipped at the corners, suggesting it was anything but fun. “Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

He collected my cases, and I followed him up the broad, polished oak staircase, which creaked in protest with each step. On the landing, I noticed the floor was covered in a sandy-colored carpet that looked brand-new but was coarse as if it were made from old sacks.

Dylan pointed to a bedroom at the front of the house. “That’s mine. And beside it is a bedroom that still needs refurbishing.” He waved his other hand down the landing toward the back of the house. “You can choose whichever bedroom you like, and we’ll do it up.” He gestured to one of the rooms closer to his. “That one has been decorated. You should sleep there for now. The bathroom across the hall will be yours—I have an en suite. I haven’t decorated the other three bedrooms or the ones upstairs. If you’d prefer one of those, like I said, we’ll decorate it to your taste.”

“That’s kind of you.”

His brow creased. “It’s not kindness, Emily. I want you to understand that this is your home now. Mi casa es su casa.”

I practiced another smile and the corners of my mouth inched up again, through sheer force of will.

“Anyhow, take your pick. I’ll fix us some supper.” His face fell. “You haven’t eaten much.”

I hadn’t eaten at all, and my stomach roiled at the thought of supper. “I’m not hungry.”

He adopted his tolerant expression, a look that was becoming more familiar. “Some soup, then?”

I nodded to avoid a confrontation. Politeness was the key; keeping everything polite enabled me to function.

Dylan deposited my cases in the spare bedroom and left me while I stood motionless, staring at all the doors that led off the wide, brilliant-white landing.

When I finally wandered into the spare bedroom, I was met with more dazzling, clinical white.

I’m detecting a theme.

The room was light and airy with high ceilings. A king-size wooden bed, a matching bedside table, a chest of drawers, and a large dark-wood mirror that hung over the bed were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Naturally, the bedding was white, as were the shutters.

Crossing to the window, I looked down through the wide slats at the back garden and saw a deranged jungle of green. Either Doctor Dyl’s talents did not extend to gardening, or he hadn’t conquered it yet. I suspected the latter. Dylan was good at everything he did, or so it seemed.

As I turned back to the door, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I gasped, not recognizing the stranger who stared back at me with a blank expression. Her vivid red hair was tamed for now, pulled back in its usual severe, thick plait that hung to her waist. Her dark-blue eyes dominated her face. She looked haunted—too pale, too tired, too sad. Dressed in jeans and a baggy sweat top, hunched and small, she looked a sorry state.

My mother’s voice rang in my head, and the pain in my chest quivered as I heard her lilting words: Head up, Angel. You’re so beautiful. You don’t need to hide.

As an introvert, I tended to fold myself up, except when I was playing my cello. That was the only time I sat up straight. I shook my head, aware that the grief Numb had kept caged was threatening to break out.