The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

Yogurt and I emerged from the basement around sunup the next day. I fixed the back camera and tried to fiddle with the front to no avail, then we got some coffee, packed a bag, and headed out.

I left it all behind.

For the first time since I started creating true crime content. I left my cameras and recording equipment and even my laptop at home.

I took only my cell with me and Yogurt across town to my mother's house.

Clearly, I needed a break.

A full one.

No social media contact, period.

"This is a nice surprise," my mom said as she answered the door. I just barely resisted the urge to remind her she was supposed to, at least, ask who was at the door before opening it.

"Yogurt and I need a break," I told her. "We are getting paranoid."

"We?" my mom asked, smirking.

"Okay, me. Yogurt was born paranoid."

I took after my mother in the looks department. I was tall and lean like her, had her same face, the same eyes. Before I started dying it, I had her same blonde hair.

"You've been working too much," my mother said, pulling the leash from my hand, and leading Yogurt inside, so I could grab my bags.

"I know," I agreed, moving inside.

Where I preferred warmer shades like reds and oranges when it came to decor, my mother was a big fan of the farmhouse chic look with lots of white, punches of black, and natural-toned rugs, and more plants than I could count stuck near every window, soaking up the sun.

While it wasn't as homey to me as my own place with my own style, I felt like it was the perfect place to be to decompress. It was bright and airy, the kind of place that no bad things could possibly happen.

That was irrational, of course, but I couldn't shake the comfort of it, either.

"Oh, this one is new," I said, putting my purse down on the mail table beside a succulent in a terra cotta pot that seemed to have itty bitty plant babies all along each of its leaves.

"Mother of Thousands," my mom explained, taking the leash off of Yogurt. "That was a hard one to track down," she added. "Grab a couple of the babies and throw them into some dirt. They will grow."

"Ma, we've established I can't keep these types of things alive," I reminded her as I followed her into the kitchen, watching as she went right for the coffee machine. She knew me too well.

"So, you're being paranoid?" she asked.

"I think so. I mean, like one night, my book and cup and table on the porch were knocked over. And that kinda had me jumping at any little noise and shadows. Last night, a cat was on my fence, and it sent me rushing into the basement, thinking about calling the police. I think this triple abduction case is getting to me."

"It reminds you too much of Brittany Adams," she said, understanding. "I remember watching how much her kidnapping impacted you. You went from being so extroverted and reckless, to sure every man you passed was out to get you."

"Not every, Mom, but many," I told her.

"Honey..."

"It's not over-the-top," I insisted. "Have you ever noticed that you got hit on the most by grown-ass men when you were underage a shit ton more than you ever did after becoming legal?" I asked, watching as the realization crossed her face. "Exactly," I said, nodding. "I wasn't being over-the-top, I was just very aware of the situation."

"And now?" she asked, grabbing some chocolate syrup for my coffee. "You're a little past the age for trafficking," she said.

"I know I should be offended that you're calling me old and undesirable," I teased, "but you're right. I'm not likely to be trafficked. But rapists and murderers aren't quite as ageist as traffickers. It is still a viable concern. And sometimes these cases just give me an undiluted dose of reality that makes me a little jumpy."

"I worry about that mindset, though, Poppy," she told me, handing me my coffee. "How will you ever be able to meet someone with this mindset?"

"Hey, I am as open to meeting someone as the next girl. Provided he is willing to let me run a background check on him and poke around his phone or computer for red flags. I'm joking!" I insisted as she frowned. Okay I wasn't really joking, but it made her feel better to think I was. "In fact, I actually have kind of met someone."

"What?" my mother asked. Well, no, not asked. She squealed. Legitimately squealed.

"Mom, easy," I said, laughing as Yogurt hurled herself under the kitchen table, moving in close to me. "Great. Now squealing is a trigger for her."

"I didn't squeal," she objected, turning away to grab her coffee.

"You totally squealed. I feel like we are in some period piece, and I am the undesirable daughter you almost gave up hope on marrying off."