The Cleaner
The apartment smelled wrong in the way expensive things smell wrong: vanilla candles burning too sweet, bleach scrubbed too deep, the kind of clean that meant something dirty had happened here.
Dante stood in the doorway, latex gloves already slick against his palms. Afternoon light sliced through venetian blinds, carving the living room into prison bars of shadow and gold. He catalogued the scene before acknowledging the client. Old habit. Dead habit. The kind that kept you alive in this business.
Coffee table: Baccarat crystal, eighteen inches from the couch. Measured. She'd used a ruler. He could see the faint indentations in the carpet where she'd adjusted it millimeter by millimeter. Control freak. The dangerous kind.
Magazines: Architectural Digest on top, dated three months ago. Forbes beneath, unread, spine uncracked. Town & Country at the bottom, pages soft from handling. She wanted to appear powerful but craved beauty.
Throw pillows: Hermès cashmere, placed with mathematical precision, but the left one had been gripped recently, nail marks in the fabric, hastily smoothed over. She'd been rehearsing this scene. Practicing her composure like lines in a play she'd written herself.
"You're early."
The voice behind him carried smoke and hostile takeovers. He didn't turn. Not yet.
"Traffic was light."
Her heels clicked against hardwood. Click. Click. Click. A countdown to something inevitable.
"Drink?"
"I don't drink on the job."
"How disappointingly professional."
Now he turned.
She was younger than her voice suggested. Her face had that Swiss clinic perfection, skin pulled taut as violin strings. Red hair twisted into a chignon so architectural it could have been designed by Gehry, all impossible angles and contained tension. Her black dress moved like liquid shadow. Diamond earrings caught the dying light and held it hostage
She stood too close. Close enough that he could see the pulse at her throat, quick as a hummingbird's wings. Close enough to count the freckles she'd tried to hide with foundation.
He stepped back.
"You're not what I expected," she said, eyes traveling from his face to his feet then back up.
"Disappointment seems to be the theme tonight."
She smiled, lips parting just enough to show perfect teeth. "Oh, I didn't say I was disappointed."
Dante moved past her, creating distance. "Where is it?"
She gestured toward the bedroom with a martini that materialized like a magic trick. Gin. Her fingers lingered on the glass stem, stroking it absently.
"Eager to get started?" She moved closer again. "Or eager to leave?"
"Time is of the essence in these matters. What's easy to clean now becomes permanent in an hour."
"How unromantic." She was beside him now, hip almost touching his. "Though I suppose you would know about things becoming permanent."
The bedroom door stood open. He walked toward it, maintaining pace, maintaining distance. She followed, heels marking time.
Click. Click. Click.
Inside: white everything except for the stain spreading across Egyptian cotton like spilled communion wine. The stain was body-shaped. Had been body-shaped. Fresh.
She leaned against the doorframe, studying him as he studied the scene. "You have beautiful hands," she said.
He pulled the latex tighter, snapping it against his wrist. "How long?"
Her eyes flickered. "Two hours. Maybe three."
"Who knows?"
"Just me." She stepped into the room, trailing fingers along the dresser. "And now you."