The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

"Would it kill you to re-clean things?" he asked. "You know, so I know I am as beloved as our other coworkers?"

"If it makes you feel better, I haven't cleaned Holden's place either."

"Hardly counts. No one even knows where he is living these days," Bellamy said, shrugging. "And even if you did, and got the bug, he'd probably rip your limbs off by mistake."

That wasn't much of an understatement, either.

There was something unhinged in me, yes. In Bellamy, absolutely. But it was a whole other beast entirely when we were talking about Holden.

"Ever wonder how he became some girl's father-figure for years?" Bellamy asked.

"I doubt he was that," I said, shaking my head.

"You're right. Probably more like a drill sergeant," Bellamy agreed. "Still. He had to give a shit about another human being, even just sometimes. Can you imagine?"

I couldn't.

Holden was a hard man, in just about every way that could be interpreted. He was a giant of a person, sculpted almost entirely out of muscle. He trained hard. He worked hard. And he simply was emotionally hard, closed-off, difficult to get to know.

"No," I agreed.

"Me either. And I've, objectively, spent more time with him than the rest of you have. You know, he refused to let me upgrade his hotel room?"

"And when you did so anyway?" I prompted, knowing him too well.

"He left. Refused to tell me where he was staying. How's that for gratitude?" he asked, tsking his tongue. "So, your messy girl. How'd you meet?"

"At a coffee place," I said, it being mostly true, even if it had been creepier than that.

"So what's she like?" he asked, smirking.

"Bellamy, go outside," I demanded.

"Oh, come on. Fine," he said, sighing.

"Bell," I called.

"Yeah?"

"If you drug me and get the information that way, you will suffer."

"Killjoy," he said, but he was smiling as he made his way back outside.

It was another couple of hours before I heard footsteps behind me again while I worked on the study.

"Bellamy, how many times—"

"How much longer are you going to need?" Holden's voice asked, making me turn to find him standing in the hallway wearing another of the disposable coveralls that were too small for his wide body. "I've been outside with Bellamy for hours."

"Do you have a burner on you?" I asked.

"Always," he answered.

"Call Quin and ask if you two can leave. I have this from here."

"He's a big fucker," Holden said of the man who was on a tarp out back. He would need to be scrubbed, dismembered, and buried all around the woods. It was a big job. And Holden was right, he was a big man.

"I can handle it," I assured him.

In fact, I'd be able to do my job better without them breathing down my neck.

"Good," he said, turning to move away before coming back. "This was my mess to clean up," he said, tone apologetic. It was the closest thing to an apology I would get out of him. His people skills were lacking at best. Which was saying a lot coming from me. But the man had lived in the woods, alone, for years. And then he had a girl to train, one who was on a killing mission. She killed bad guys, but still. I felt like there would be a lot of darkness in that life they shared together for a girl who'd been somewhat normal before became someone capable of carrying out that mission.

"Don't mention it," I said, shrugging.

That was enough for the both of us.

And with that, I was alone.

To clean, then re-clean when I realized I was letting myself get distracted with ideas about Poppy.

Poppy who had no idea how fucking creepy the situation between us really was. And if she ever learned, she would never let me near her again. Then, not to mention the shit about serial killing.

No, I wasn't a serial killer.

But I doubt she would think the reality was much better.

The reality where I was cutting a man apart in the woods, then burying his bits all over. Deep. You had to bury body parts deep. That was most people's fuck-up. They thought six feet was good enough. But six feet was just deep enough for humans not to smell decomposing flesh. Dogs? Dogs could typically smell about twelve to fifteen feet deep. Highly trained ones, though, have been reported to find remains up to thirty feet in optimal conditions.

I don't know if you've ever dug thirty-foot holes. Even small ones just deep enough for smaller limbs. But it was a mother fucker.

I didn't often choose this sort of burial. On the property where the murder took place. It was much more risky. Especially when the one killed was so rich and influential.

Dissolving was better.

Hell, if you knew a couple, feeding a body to hogs was your best bet. Provided you shaved off their hair and pulled out their teeth first. Hair could be burned. Teeth could be tossed in the ocean.