The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

With that, he turned and walked back toward the office Nia shared with Miller, who was rarely ever in the office anymore these days, what with spending a good chunk of her time in Greece with her family.

Following behind Quin, I made note that the baseboards could use a scrubbing, that the floor could use some wax. My mind was hardwired to notice those kinds of things. And when I couldn't sleep at night—which, let's face it, was most nights—I would drag out that mental list, and get to work at marking things off of it.

It relieved some of the anxiety.

It helped me be able to take a deep breath.

Moving into Nia's office, I found Miller's desk pushed against a corner, giving Nia more space for her L-shaped one with multiple monitors and a fishbowl on the corner that was usually kept nearly overflowing with Hershey Kisses, but only had a handful at the bottom. I wasn't sure any of us had been around to see what happened when that fishbowl got empty.

You see, Nia stress-ate Kisses. It was what helped her keep calm. It was to her what cleaning was to me.

Maybe I would pick her up a couple bags on my way in to wax the floors.

I wasn't anticipating having a good night of sleep. I'd been spiraling for a while now.

"So," Quin said, moving to lean against the shelving unit toward the side of Nia's desk. "Apparently, I've been paying Nia to do work that I didn't even know about." There was a clear disapproval in his voice.

It was no secret to anyone in the office that Quin and Nia could, at times, be like oil and water. They were both headstrong and unwavering when they believed in something. Quin, being the boss, expected his employees to yield to his will on most topics. Nia, well, she didn't often yield to anything. This meant that she and Quin often butted heads and got into screaming matches. And they usually didn't stop until one of us stepped in to negotiate a solution they both found tolerable.

"It paid off, didn't it?" Nia shot back, but there wasn't any real malice in her voice, probably knowing that she was right in this case, that there really wasn't much Quin could come at her about.

To that, Quin sighed as he rolled his neck. "You got me there," he admitted. "Anyway," he said, looking at me. "Nia has been keeping tabs on the dark web and general social media and discussion boards area since she started on here."

"Because I wanted to make sure no one was talking about our little operation here without us knowing about it," Nia clarified.

"Someone has been?" I asked, sensing that was the path we were heading down. My stomach tightened at the idea. For many reasons. Because this office and these people meant a lot to me, and I didn't want any of us getting locked up for the—admittedly—less than legal things we did on a daily basis. But there was also a selfish little part of me that couldn't bear the idea of Quinton Baird & Associates being shut down because I knew there wasn't a single other boss in the world who would tolerate me as an employee, who would put up with my eccentricities.

If someone was on to us, we had to get to them before they got to the cops.

Case closed.

As a whole, we tried to operate with some morals. Sure, we dealt with general scumbags as clients, people who did bad or illegal things all the time, but we tried never to allow innocent people to get wrapped up in it.

If it came to us and some random guy who wanted to bring us down, though, I was pretty sure there were a few of us who wouldn't have a problem handling that. A couple of us already had a shitton of dark marks on our souls. What was one more in the grand scheme of things?

I was half-ready to grab my gun and get to work before either of them even spoke again.

"Finn," Quin called, seeming to sense the change in me. He would. He knew me. You know, back then. Back before I found some coping skills for the darkness inside my head. Back when I was still actively carving those dark marks in my soul with reckless abandon.

"Who are they onto?" I asked, voice tight.

"You," Nia said, shrugging as she reached over to grab her dozens of small braids, and pulling them over to one shoulder as she leaned back in her chair. She and Quin had gone a round or two over that chair. Some name-brand ergonomic thing that cost almost three grand. She'd won the argument, reminding him how many hours she spent at her desk, telling him she didn't give a fuck how much he paid her, she wasn't going to permanently screw up her back for him.