The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

Hell, I couldn't blame her, even if I believed the world was a better place without the people I helped clean up every trace of.

In the days following us taking to bed, I watched as she chatted online with her followers about how sad the news was of Shelley Shannon's murder, but how it must have been good for the family that they finally knew what happened to her, they wouldn't constantly be afflicted with crushing fear and traitorous hope.

She paced and ranted about it taking so long to get information about who the police were looking at for the murder.

She felt for these people that she never knew.

She wanted justice for them.

It had been a long time since I'd been that close to that kind of passion for something. You could argue that Bellamy often killed out of passion—like with the pedo he'd just taken out—but it was always a knee-jerk reaction, something he saw and handled immediately. He never had to pace and rant and wonder and research. His compulsion to balance the scales of justice didn't overly impact his life. It did for Poppy.

I woke up the morning after we'd slept together—both literally and figuratively—I found myself in bed alone. Well, mostly alone. Yogurt was there with me, sleeping at the foot of the bed, as close to the corner as she could squeeze her large body, cuddled up with a pig toy and one of Poppy's dinosaur slippers.

But Poppy was gone.

I sat there, disoriented for a long moment, mind foggy from the deep sleep my body was so unaccustomed to.

It wasn't until my phone buzzed in my pants on the floor that I made myself move, reaching for it to find it was already well after eleven in the morning.

I never slept in late. Ever.

And yet there I was, feeling something completely foreign to me.

Refreshed.

"Did Mom take you out yet?" I asked of Yogurt as she let out a loud yawn. "Wanna go out?" I asked, figuring the dew would have evaporated, so she wouldn't be so squirrelly about stepping on the grass.

Seeming to decide it was a good idea, she went ahead and did a whole body stretch before following me out of the bedroom and downstairs.

I let her out as I went up to the bathroom, finding Poppy had set me out a toothbrush and an extra towel.

As I walked past her office, I didn't hear her voice like I'd expected. Curious, I moved back downstairs, not finding her in the kitchen or the basement.

A bit of anxiety started to unfurl in my stomach until I realized her purse, keys, and car were gone.

She'd needed to run out for something.

"Where'd Mom go?" I asked Yogurt as she came back inside to grumble at the clock in the dining room.

But even as I was contemplating calling her, I heard the front door unlock, and Poppy moving inside, a couple bags in her hands.

"Hey, you're up. Good. Did you get my note?"

"Ah, no," I said, looking around again.

"It's on the coffee machine. I guess I figured it would be the first place you would head in the morning. You know, like a normal human being. How are you functioning without coffee?" she asked, her tone almost an accusation.

"I didn't need it. Got a good night of sleep for a change."

"I just ran out to get us some breakfast. Then I realized, I had no idea what you liked. So I got just about everything. Bagels, sausage, egg, and cheese, hash browns, French toast, and a parfait cup, just in case you were one of those freaks. Fair warning, if you are, I shall convert you to the brighter side of fried and sugary breakfast foods," she said, babbling as she made her way into the kitchen. "Though, don't get too used to this. I'm typically a cereal type of person in the morning. This is my pride and joy," she went on, walking over to the largest cabinet near her fridge, opening it, and revealing an impressive selection of cereal. "Mostly sugar ones. But I keep a box of the twig and berry sort too for when I am feeling guilty for eating too many sweets. Okay, help yourself," she said, waving toward the bags as she went toward the coffee machine.

"I'm a bagel person. Jules, that's someone at my office, she usually picks some up on her way in. But I'm going to try all of this."

"I will fight you for the lion's share of the French toast. Just so you know. You might beat me in the muscle department, but I have just shy of five-hundred milligrams of caffeine in my system already. I can practically lift a truck."

"No need to fight," I said, moving an extra two slices of French toast onto her plate.