The rain in London was different from the rain in Amalfi. In Italy, the rain felt like a blessing, washing the dust off the lemon trees and cooling the hot stone. In London, it felt like a weight. It pressed down on the skyline, turning the glass towers into gray smudges and making the streets slick with oil and grime. I stood by the window of the safe house, watching the droplets race down the glass. It was a different safe house than the one we had left. This one was in Hampstead, owned by a trust Marcus had set up years ago. It was unlisted. Unconnected to our names. A ghost property for ghost living.
We had been back for twelve hours. The flight from Naples had been tense. Eleanor slept most of the way, curled up in the leather seat with her bear. Marcus sat opposite me, his eyes neve
