Akbar Khan’s message was as concise as his relationship with his daughter: ‘The car will be with you at 6.00P.M. I am sending my personal driver, Michael. Do not be late, and don’t make him wait.’ The sound of his voice made her bristle, almost pushing her back to teenage strop and pout. She was tempted to call him back and tell him she wasn’t coming. But far too many years had passed for her to act that way. And besides, she’d made a promise to her little sister Maria.

‘Don’t fall down that rabbit hole of rage when Baba jaan calls.’

‘I don’t do that. Do I do that?’

‘I won’t get married if you don’t come. I will send the baraat away.’ And although Jia knew Maria’s threat was empty, she had agreed. After fifteen years away, she was going back to Pukhtun House. Now was as a good a time as any to face old foes, even ones that were family.

She put the phone down on the bedside table and returned to the warm sofa. She tried to get back to the podcast she’d been listening to but found herself unable to concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to the call; something about it wasn’t right. Her father’s voice, normally strong and decisive, had sounded worn. She had never known Akbar Khan to waver. It was one of his countless strengths; it was how he controlled a room. As she picked over his words and pauses, someone walked over her grave and she shivered. She remembered something he’d said to her a long time ago: ‘Heaven, hell, present, past and future are all dimensions that operate in the same space. What you experience depends on how you see the world.’ She wondered which of the dimensions he was caught up in today and what he was planning for her.

CHAPTER 3

Though Jia Khan had not visited her parents in fifteen years, the wedding wouldn’t be her first time back in the city where she was raised. A court case had taken her there less than a year ago. It had felt strange to be back and not stay at her parents’ place, but she hadn’t been ready for a family reunion then, so she’d stayed in a hotel across from the Crown Court, venturing into neighbouring streets only to grab some lunch and return. She’d eaten dinner in the hotel and spent her evenings in her room, poring over case files. It had been a relief, therefore, when the trial came to a close, and not just because it meant she could return to London, but because the case had been an unsettling one.