Dust swirls as I slam the door behind me. Sunrise leaks through the grimy window, catching on every neglected shelf and the thick film of dirt coating each trinket.

My nose prickles. I brace for the sneeze. Same every weekend: more dust, more clutter, fewer customers.

I drop onto the small teak desk’s stool and open the safe. No till—just a battered rusting money tin and a faded leather inventory ...

I know it’s one of them; their over-friendly, obsessively interested nature gives off an aura of insecurity and over defensiveness all at the same time. But which one? Amelia keeps fiddling with her soft blond curls. I stare harder at the constant twirling. It’s like a never ending coil, tightening and tightening.

‘Are you ok darling?’ I jump as Janet grips my shoulder. ‘You look like you’re wor...