The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

To that, she smiled. "I'm going to ignore that. So what's his name? What's he like?"

"His name is Finn. And it is all very new, so I can't say a whole lot yet."

"What? You mean you don't already know his social security number, and the names of all of his ex-girlfriends?" she asked, grinning.

But, well, she was right. Usually, before a man got his hands—let alone face—anywhere near my nether regions, I knew just about everything there was to know about him.

I didn't even know Finn's last name.

What was going on with me?

"I know, right?" I agreed, sighing. "He was in the military for a while, and he seems to have some PTSD from that."

"I'd say that's normal considering how the world was when he'd likely been in service."

"Yeah," I agreed. "But he, ah, he is OCD. Legitimately OCD, not like being a neat person. It's a compulsive behavior. He scrubbed my return vents."

"You don't scrub your return vents?"

To that, a laugh bubbled up and burst out. "We've established you are a much better housekeeper than I am."

"Well, so what if he likes things clean? We all have our things, don't we?"

"Yeah, no. It doesn't bother me. It is just, you know, a factor for him. He gets anxious if things are messy. And he cleans when he can't sleep. He looks perpetually tired."

"Poor guy."

"Yeah. But he's very, uhm, protective? The night when something knocked over my table on the porch, he leapt over the couch, and ran outside to investigate."

"Protective. That is not usually your type. Didn't you call that trait a 'red flag'?"

"Yeah. I guess it's situational. It wasn't like he was being overprotective. It was potentially a bad situation, and he jumped into action. And when I accidentally whacked him in the chest with my baton, he told me to aim higher next time."

"You're smiling when you talk about him."

"It's new," I insisted.

"Still. I like this for you."

"Don't get too attached to the idea. You know my track record. Besides, he probably thinks I'm psycho now."

"Why?"

"I accidentally dialed him several times in a row last night while we were fleeing for our lives because of the killer cat," I explained.

"Oh, well, that is easily explained."

"If he gives me a chance to explain. Like I said, it's new."

"Why are you here rather than trying to explain yourself?"

"He's out of town for work. He works in crisis management."

"Oh, fancy," she said.

"I know, right? He said he would be a few days. We are going on four now. What?"

"You're counting," she said. "If I recall correctly, the last guy..."

"Liam," I filled in. "Don't worry," I added. "He was totally forgettable."

"Right. Liam. I distinctly remember you ignoring his call because you'd talked the weekend before, and you felt that was often enough."

"So?"

"So, it was Thursday," she said, shaking her head. "I guess when it is the right guy, it's different."

"Ma, I barely know him," I reminded her.

"Sure sure," she agreed, waving a hand. "So, decompressing you from all the true crime. I believe that calls for some tacos and a Jane Austen movie marathon."

To my mom, a Jane Austen movie marathon cured everything.

And four hours—but only one movie later—I was starting to think she was right.

Sometimes, you just needed to turn off your phone's ringer, get away from work and social media, eat a your body weight in tacos, and fall a little bit in love with historical men.

I slept deeply for the first time in ages, waking up actually feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world.

We'd just finished lunch the next day when the hypnotic pull of my phone called to me.

I could barely swipe my fingers across the screen before I saw the dozens of notifications.

All that spelled out one thing.

They found her body.

"Ma, I gotta go," I called, tossing some of my things back into my bag, grabbing Yogurt's leash, and trying to coax her out from under the dining room table.

"What? What's the matter?"

"They found her," I said, clipping the leash on Yogurt's collar. "They found Shelley Shannon's body."

And I needed to get home as soon as possible to look into and report on it.

Chapter Nine

Finn

I didn't know what to make of any of it.

She was gone, yes.

So was the dog she must have finally picked up, judging by the bowls, bed, and toys lying around.

There were several of her weapons lying around out in the open. A baton, a frying pan, and a whole little arsenal in the basement along with a blanket pile on the floor. Like she'd camped out down there for some reason.

Which had me checking the cameras she'd set up.

The back one seemed to be working, but the front one was disconnected. But I had no idea if it had been disconnected, or if it hadn't been connected yet.

I had no reason to feel sick to my stomach.