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Tristan. Tristan. Tristan. A young man. A ghost. A bodyguard.

Oh no.

I gasped as my hollowed-out chest rippled with pain. I hadn’t thought about my family for the past few hours.

No!

Guilt thundered in my head.

How could I forget?

“Hello, Emily.” Lulu clattered into the kitchen in high-heeled mules. “You okay?” she asked, mild concern flickering across her lovely face.

“Yes, fine,” I whispered.

She was wearing a floral halter-neck dress and looked her usual stunning self.

“I think the locksmith’s finished. Did Dylan leave you any money to pay him?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll sort it.” She beamed and clattered back out into the hall, oblivious. Inwardly, I groaned. I wanted some peace and quiet so I could digest all that had happened this afternoon. Lulu wasn’t good at peace and quiet.

Hell! I was supposed to cook. Perhaps that would buy me some alone time. I began foraging through the fridge to find ingredients for a meal.

“Apparently, he has paid. Dylan is so organized. I don’t think I’ve ever met another man like him,” Lulu said as she wandered back into the kitchen. She was glowing and pleased to be back from her weekend away, that much was obvious.

“How have you been, Emily?” she asked, sounding sincere.

“Fine, thanks,” I said, knowing I probably wouldn’t have to say much more. I pulled some frozen mince out of the freezer and decided I had all the ingredients I needed to make lasagna. I’d never seen Dylan eat pasta—it was a staple at home.

Home!

The familiar ache reverberated around my chest.

“Oh, what happened here?” She looked down at the broken glass by the bin.

“I dropped a glass,” I lied. “Sorry, I haven’t gotten around to putting it in the bin.”

“I’ll do it.” Lulu smiled. “Then I think I’d like a glass of wine. You don’t mind, do you, Emily?”

I shook my head while I put the mince in the microwave to defrost. Lulu tidied away the glass fragments, then raided the fridge. She emerged with a bottle of white wine and poured herself a glass. I was grateful she didn’t offer me any. I contemplated telling her about the intruder, but she interrupted my thoughts.

“I had a fantastic day at the gallery.” She launched into a story about a new artist the gallery was featuring, and I found it impossible to pay attention. But I tried. For a bit. “He is so talented… and his muse is… adorable.”

“Cool.”

I made the right noises as I sliced through the onions, but my thoughts turned to Tristan. The more I knew about him, the more questions I had. He’d only been dead between eighteen months to two years. He didn’t seem clear on the exact timeline. The big question was, how did he die? Could I ask him? Or would that be rude? Perhaps I could Google it.

Don’t be ridiculous, Emily!

“I’ve got to make a couple of calls,” Lulu announced, and I realized I hadn’t been listening.

“Okay.” I plastered a smile on my face, and she went into the hallway.

I went back to thinking about Tristan. How the hell did he move things? Where did his telekinetic ability come from? He’d thrown me onto the bed, he’d knocked the glass out of my hand, and of course there was the incident with the medicines.

Could all ghosts do that?