The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

I handed out the cards myself because I knew which was the killer card, so I knew who I handed it to.

And he was right.

Damn him.

I wanted him to figure it out, but maybe not that quickly. Hell, I never even solved it that fast when I was playing.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, playing dumb, wanting him to sweat it a bit.

Unfortunately, Finn didn't seem to be the sweating sort.

"She's answering questions while looking up and to the left. She's lying."

"Maybe she just knows the basic lie tells, and is using them to throw her interrogators off," I suggested. Blake, Marc, and I were all guilty of doing it.

"She's all of eighteen," he objected, raising a brow at me.

That was true.

"Maybe she is more advanced than I was at her age," I suggested, knowing how cocky, yet naive, I had been when I was just starting out in my discovery of true crime, and all the facets to be found there.

"Possible. Yet unlikely."

"What were you doing when you were eighteen?" I asked, figuring he was the typical college kid going to parties, getting obliterated, and scraping by with his grades.

"Putting bullets in the heads of enemies of the United States," he said simply, but there was a bite to it, like he found the words tricky to chew on.

And no wonder.

"You were in the military at eighteen?" I asked, looking over, trying to read his face. But he wasn't someone—anxiety aside—who seemed to share much on the surface.

"Enlisted the last day of high school."

"Why?"

"To get the hell out of my hometown," he declared, moving away, putting distance between us.

Unfortunately for him, I couldn't be shaken off quite that easily. "What was so bad about it?" I asked, following him to the refreshment area that he perused for a long moment before not deciding on anything. And it was a good selection.

"It would be faster to list off what was good about it," he said, avoiding eye contact.

"Come on, work with me here. I'm trying to be friendly. And, let me tell you, it does not suit my personality," I told him, watching as he shot me that barely-there smile again.

"It was run-down and poor with no opportunities. And full of the most selfish and ugly people I've ever met. And with my life, that is saying something," he told me, moving back to the snack station again. But he walked away once again without picking anything. It seemed like he was uncomfortable with being the focus of attention, and was just looking for something to distract himself with.

"My father fucked my mother's best friend when she was seven months pregnant with me," I declared, making his head whip around, pinning me with that light green-eyed stare.

"What?"

"I figured you might be more comfortable sharing the ugly parts about your life if I shared some of mine. Though, I guess, you gave me two. So, here goes. My mother took him back because, well, seven months pregnant with no way to go back to work if she left him, so she could provide for me and all of that. Anyway, he was the one who came up with my name."

"Oh, no," Finn said, starting to catch on.

"Yeah, we learned when I was four that he'd picked the name Poppy because it was one of his mistresses' favorite flowers. He was a real prince, my father."

"Was?" Finn asked.

"Well, is. Unless one of his women finally got sick of him, and went at him with a butcher knife ten times like some lady pushed too far on an episode of Snapped."

"You don't have a relationship with him?"

"Let's just say that his philandering is actually not his worst trait. In fact, it doesn't make the top five. He's a real piece of shit, so I don't see the benefit in connecting with him."

"That's fair," Finn agreed. "But you have your mom."

"My mom is the best."

"That's good."

"You said you don't have any family."

"That's not entirely true."

"You just don't have any family you care to stay in touch with."

"Yeah," Finn agreed, going back to the snack station and finally picking up a bottle of water.

"I hope you have some found family, though," I said as he twisted off the top. I went ahead like the thirsty bitch I was and watched the way his forearm muscles tensed while he did that. "I mean, who is going to delete your browser history if something happens to you, y'know?" I asked as he raised the bottle to take a sip. "Can't have people finding out what kind of porn you're into," I added, making Finn snort, then promptly start to choke on his water.

"Jesus," he said after taking another sip, pushing down the trapped water.

"Yeah, I can be a little much," I agreed, nodding. "So, in what fun way are you going to have Peyton killed for the next party?" I asked, figuring it maybe wasn't appropriate to discuss porn with him yet. I mean, I was pretty shameless about those types of things, but some people had, you know, social mores and such.