The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

I waited until he was down the road before climbing out, gathering my supplies, then making my way into the building.

I kept blinders on while moving through the first floor, not wanting to add any other areas to the list of dirty spaces that would keep me up at night.

I mean, the kitchen. I imagined the grease from the deep fryer got on every surface. And what were the chances that they cleaned that on the regular?

No.

No.

I had to focus.

Upstairs.

I was only cleaning the upstairs.

Which was already way overstepping a line.

I told myself that the owner likely wouldn't even notice. He didn't seem to be the kind of guy who was too concerned with aesthetics. If he was, why would there be graffiti in the entryway vestibule that proclaimed Ronny is the pussy master?

And even if the people who rented out the space—like Poppy and her fan-friends—would probably just assume that the owner had the space cleaned.

It was fine.

No one was going to know.

I'd made sure to shake some extra lemon into the gallon of cleaning solution. Just in case.

Then I got to work.

And with every scrub of the cleaning rag and swipe of the vacuum and carpet shampooer, I could feel some of the anxiety slipping away. The memories dulled around the edges. The intrusive thoughts quieted.

It was the closest to peace I knew, when I was cleaning.

By the time I was done, the space was spotless, if maybe some things—like the shabbiness of the couches—didn't look much better.

As I loaded up my truck and climbed in, I could even feel the tiredness tugging at my eyelids. I was typically perpetually exhausted since sleep often proved elusive, but when I finished a deep cleaning job, I could tell it was one of the rare times when I could actually fall asleep for a bit, help my system reset.

Then the cycle restarted itself all over again.

I secretly prayed for work to get busier with jobs that might involve me. If I worked more, I would likely rest more. Which was backward for most people, but how things worked for me.

I'd considered getting a second job that would allow me to do some more heavy cleaning on a regular basis, but I knew that Quin expected us to be on-call for whenever he might need us. He paid us well enough to have us be available around-the-clock and within a few moments' notice.

Getting back home, I spent a half an hour cleaning out my vacuum and carpet shampooer, then showered, and finally climbed into bed, exhaustion weighing heavily on my weary bones.

But sleep didn't immediately come.

My mind kept flashing back.

Not to my days in the trenches. Not to the faces of those I'd killed. Or the ones I'd seen buddies kill.

No.

Back just a couple hours in the past.

Not to the filthy room.

But to the woman who almost made me forget how dirty it was.

I wasn't sure the last time I felt that way about another person. If ever. That someone quieted the noise inside, forced my attention on them, and them only.

I felt comfortable saying it hadn't actually been something I'd known. At least not while surrounded by filth.

On a growl, I reached for my phone on the nightstand, ready to be a complete creep, and go stalk her videos, wanting to get more of a feel for her than I already did, even if I knew Quin would blow a gasket if he found out. But even as I was about to swipe my finger across the screen, I saw the notification at the bottom.

A text.

It wasn't a rare occasion, of course. My coworkers and their wives texted me all the time.

But there was a tripping of my heartbeat, some part of me just knowing it wasn't any of them as I hit the messages icon, opening my inbox.

And there it was.

Her name.

Named after the favorite flower of a philandering father.

But I felt the name suited her in a strange way.

I opened the message without even looking at the preview first.

- I did a deep dive into an unsolved case... and now I'm creeped out. Are you chasing the sunrise again?

I shouldn't have answered. I'd already gone too far, stepped over too many lines. Besides, for the first time in a long time, I was tired. And my mind was still enough to let me sleep. I should have been chasing a night of sleep, not a sunrise.

And yet, there seemed to be no stopping my fingers as they moved to the keys.

- - What kind of case was it?

- The kind that involves a lot of mutilation. The crime scene pictures are horrific.

- - Why would you look at the crime scene pictures? Especially if they bother you.

I'd seen so much in my day. Nothing fazed me anymore. Anyone who thought animals were vicious had clearly never seen the brutality their fellow humans were capable of. And not for food or hierarchy. Just for shits and giggles. Just for fun.