The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"Me," I repeated, brows furrowing. "That's not possible."

When it came to being careful, no one on our team came close to how obsessive I was about every single minute detail about my job. That was the whole point of it. I didn't leave anything behind. There was nothing anyone could trace back to the client. Which meant there was no way it could be traced back to me.

"Alright, the long and short of it is this," Quin started, shaking his head. "Nia has found someone who has been digging around online, in forums, on the dark web even, about several cases we have worked on. Every single one of them were cases you have worked on."

"But I wouldn't be the only one working on the cases," I reminded him. I was always a secondary on a case. Someone else had the lead, while I just did my very specific job. Cleaning up crime scenes. Making messes disappear. That's what I did.

"No," Quin agreed. "But..."

"Alright listen," Nia said, crossing her ankles on her desk. Nia had a habit of kicking off her shoes under her desk, leaving her in socks most of the day. And, I guess, if I sat at a desk all day, I wouldn't be wearing shoes either. "The deal is, we have some armchair detective who is convinced that they are on the trail of, wait for it, a serial killer in Navesink Bank and its surrounding areas."

"A serial killer? And they think it's me?"

"Yes and no," Nia said. "They think one exists. And they have tracked this supposed serial killer to many scenes you have cleaned up."

"That's it, though? They have no proof?"

"They have enough that I am getting concerned about them learning more," Quin admitted.

"I mean there is even a thread on a forum with them asking about a very specific chemical cleaner with a hint of mint to it."

That was the cleaner I used.

It wasn't exactly a store-brand product.

"They've also done extensive searches for information about the people who 'went missing,' trying to find some commonality."

"But, of course, there isn't any," Nia said. "Since none of them are connected by anything but us. And you, in particular."

"But is that it? That's all they have?"

"So far, yeah."

"What do we know about them, if anything?" I asked.

To that, I got a slow brow raise from Nia, clearly thinking I was insulting her skills.

"If anything," she scoffed, reaching for a file on her desk, and whipping the cover open. "Poppy Annabelle Larson," she started, giving me a sharp glance. "Now, Poppy here just so happens to be a true crime fanatic. So much so that she operates a wildly successful true crime video and podcast business."

"Has she talked about this supposed serial killer?" I asked, wondering how anxious I was supposed to be about all of this. If it was just her, that would be bad enough. But if it was about her and thousands of her listeners? That could be catastrophic if someone somewhere found a single breadcrumb one of us left behind.

"That's the funny thing," Nia said, brows furrowing. "She hasn't. She does several posts a week about cold or ongoing cases, but has never once even hinted at this one."

"Maybe because she realizes it makes her sound insane," Quin suggested.

"Do you want me to remind you of the stats on serial killers?" Nia asked. "Because I have them memorized."

"No, thanks, babe, the time you woke me up at four a.m. to tell me them was more than enough," Quin drawled.

"Anyway," Nia said, shaking her head at our boss, "we are going to be keeping a close eye on this Poppy woman."

"And it might be a wise idea when you have a job again, that you shake up the scent of your cleaner," Quin suggested.

He either didn't notice the way my jaw clenched, or was choosing to ignore it because he thought this was important enough. Because, surely, at this point, he understood that changing things was not in my nature. Not anymore. Things had to be stable, had to be just so. If they weren't, a switched flipped inside, and my compulsions went from somewhat manageable to completely out of control.

It had been a long time since that happened. It was before Quin had tracked me down, pulled me into his crew.

Things had been ugly then. Messy in all their perfect order.

The day he found me, I had fresh stitches in the tips of three of my fingers from scrubbing so hard that I split the skin open.

Sure, you could argue there were still many times my fingers were raw, my cuticles split and bloody, but it never got that bad anymore these days. Because I was allowed to have my compulsions, but was forced to give them some structure. But it all hinged on my ability to have that unchanging routine.