2. The Cleaner #2
The quiet strength that first drew me to her is shattered. She stares through me, beyond me, trapped in whatever horror played out here.
Years of experience kick in, letting me assess the scene with clinical detachment.
Clearly this was self-defense—the splintered door, the bruises darkening on her throat, the split lip, the defensive wounds on her arms. But that won’t matter to the police.
Not with Sandra’s connections. Not with the complicated tangle of relationships involved.
Your son’s wife. Who you’ve been harboring. Who you’ve been watching with something more than fatherly concern for weeks now.
Grief and guilt war in my chest, tangled with shameful relief that Lucas can never hurt her again. I push it all down.
Later. I’ll deal with it later.
“Naomi.” I keep my voice soft, steady. She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink.
I move closer, careful not to startle her. Blood has begun to dry on her skin, her flowered dress stiff with it. The dress I’d complimented just this morning, entranced by how it made her look soft and strong at once.
My fingers find her pulse—rapid but steady. Her skin feels cold. Shock, probably. I need to get her warm, get her clean. I need to handle this.
I pull out my phone, dialing Eli. He answers on the first ring.
“Need you at my place. Cleaning job.”
A pause. “How bad?”
I look at my dead son, at the blood-covered woman I’ve been trying not to fall for. “Bad. Bring the kit.”
“Twenty minutes.”
I end the call, knowing Eli will understand what needs to be done. He always does.
Naomi hasn’t moved, barely seems to be breathing. I crouch in front of her, moving slowly.
“Hey. I’m going to help you up now, okay?” No response. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She doesn’t resist as I gather her into my arms. She weighs almost nothing, bird-bones and trembling muscle. I carry her to the bathroom, setting her gently on the closed toilet lid while I start the shower.
Steam fills the small space as I help her undress with careful efficiency. I try to avert my eyes, to maintain what privacy I can, but I don’t miss the evidence of Lucas’s final attack—fresh bruises blooming purple on her ribs, cuts joining the partially healed ones scattered across her skin.
Rage rises hot in my throat. I should have seen this coming, should have known Lucas wouldn’t let her go so easily, should have protected her better.
Should have put him down years ago, when you first saw the darkness growing in him.
I push the thought away. I need to focus on the now. I need to get the blood off her skin, out of her hair, all while keeping my touch clinical despite the fierce protectiveness threatening to overwhelm me.
The shower spray turns pink as I guide Naomi under the warm water, keeping my movements methodical despite the way my hands want to linger.
Blood runs in rivulets down her freckled skin, disappearing into the drain.
Her dress lies discarded on the bathroom floor, the cheerful purple flowers now stained dark with death.
I focus on washing her hair first, working shampoo through the tangled red curls. My fingers massage her scalp with careful pressure, trying to ease some of the tension from her rigid muscles. She stays silent, pliant under my touch, green eyes fixed on some middle distance.
The bruises on her body stand out stark against her pale skin. Each one feeds the fury building in my chest, but I keep my touch gentle as I clean away the evidence of violence. I run a washcloth down her arms, across her shoulders, careful to remain respectful.
She’s beautiful even now, vulnerable and broken in my shower, and I hate myself for noticing. For the way my body responds to her closeness despite the horror of the situation. She’s my son’s wife— was my son’s wife. She deserves better than an old man’s inappropriate desires.
I keep my eyes averted as much as possible while still being thorough, maintaining what little dignity I can for both of us. But I can’t help cataloging each new bruise, each healing scar—building evidence of Lucas’s cruelty.
The water runs clear now, but her undergarments are still soaked through with blood. Evidence that needs to be destroyed.
I close my eyes, steeling myself. “Naomi, I need to...” My voice catches. “These need to come off too.”
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink. Just stands there, water streaming down her face, arms wrapped around herself.
My hands shake as I reach for the bra clasp.
The hooks catch, refusing to release, and I fumble like a teenager.
Finally, it gives way. I slide the straps down her shoulders, letting the garment fall to the shower floor.
Her panties are next. I hook my thumbs in the elastic as I guide them down her legs.
She steps out of them mechanically when I tap her ankle. I grab both items and toss them aside with her ruined dress, forcing myself not to look at her naked form. Not to notice the constellation of freckles across her shoulders or the curve of her waist.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. This isn’t about desire. This is about keeping her safe. About washing away the evidence of what my son forced her to do.
I grab a fresh towel from the cabinet, holding it open. “Come on, lovely. Let’s get you dry.”
Once she’s dry, I wrap her in my robe—which swallows her small frame—and guide her to sit on my bed. Her hair drips onto the collar, darkening the fabric. She looks impossibly fragile and way too broken for a woman of twenty-eight years.
I retrieve clean clothes from her room, choosing soft, warm things. Eli arrives as I’m helping her dress, his knock a pre-arranged pattern that identifies him.
“Stay here,” I tell Naomi, though I doubt she hears me. “I’ll be right back.”
Eli takes in the scene with professional detachment. “Self-defense?”
I give him a single nod. “He broke in. Tried to kill her.”
“She got him first.” There’s approval in Eli’s voice. He knows Lucas’s reputation. “Sandra will make trouble.”
“Sandra.” Her name tastes bitter on my tongue. “She’ll want blood for this.”
Eli grunts in agreement, already pulling supplies from his kit. “Your ex-wife’s full of venom.”
My hands curl into fists. Twenty-five years of Sandra’s manipulations flash through my mind.
She’d turned Lucas against me after the divorce, poisoning him with lies until he saw me as worthless.
She’d gotten custody easily, thanks to her father’s connections—a judge who owed him favors and character witnesses who painted me as violent and unstable.
I’d tried to stay in Lucas’s life anyway. I showed up at his baseball games and sent birthday cards. But Sandra made sure he threw them away unopened and that he believed I’d abandoned him.
“She’ll spin this,” I say, jaw clenching. “Turn Naomi into some kind of black widow who seduced her precious boy. She won’t care that he was beating her. Won’t believe it even with proof.”
The familiar rage burns in my gut. Sandra never saw Lucas’s faults, even when they were right in front of her. She’d enabled his worst impulses, praised his cruelty as strength. And now she’ll use every resource she has at her disposal, call in every favor, to make Naomi pay for defending herself.
I glance toward the bedroom where Naomi sits, still lost to shock. The protective instinct rises fierce in my chest. I won’t let Sandra destroy another life. Not this time.
“Let me worry about Sandra. Stage it like a drug deal gone bad.” I outline the plan quickly. “He’s been hanging with the wrong crew. They’ll make likely suspects.”
Eli nods. “I’ll handle disposal. You focus on her. Any chance she’ll talk?”
I look toward the bedroom again. Naomi still hasn’t moved. “No. She’s in shock. Probably won’t remember much anyway.”
We work methodically, efficiently. Years of practice make the cleanup almost routine.
Lucas’s body goes into Eli’s van, wrapped in plastic.
The floor returns to its clean state with industrial-grade products.
We replace the door frame with ease. The hardest part of the cleanup is bathing my cat, Powder.
I gather essential items while Eli plants evidence in Lucas’s car—drugs, money, a burner phone with suspicious contacts. One of our men will follow Eli in it to a staged location.
By nightfall, my apartment shows no trace of violence. Lucas’s body and his car are gone, nowhere near my apartment. But we can’t stay here. Sandra will come looking eventually, and this will be her first stop.
I have a cabin in Hocking Hills. It’s remote, defensible, and off any official records. It’ll do for now, give us time to plan our next move.
Naomi still hasn’t moved from where I left her. She lets me guide her to the truck without resistance, Powder curled in her arms with an indignant meow at being displaced. The cat settles in Naomi’s lap as I drive, purring steadily.
I glance at Naomi’s profile in the darkness. Even in shock, she’s beautiful. Moonlight catches her freckles, turning her red hair to flames. The protective surge in my chest threatens to choke me.
I failed her. Let Lucas hurt her under my own roof. She never should have been in the position to defend herself like this.
Reaching across the seat, I take her cold hand in mine. She doesn’t respond, but her fingers curl around mine. It feels like a promise.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, more to myself than her. “Whatever comes next, I’ve got you.”
The truck eats up dark miles as snow begins to fall in earnest, erasing all evidence of our passage into the night.
Like none of this ever happened.
Like we could outrun the consequences of this bloody day.
But I know better. There will be consequences. Sandra will never believe her precious son fell to drug dealers. At her constant insistence, the police will investigate. Questions we can’t answer will be asked.
Let’s just hope our connections—Detective Eve Landry, Zeke’s wife—can save us from too much interrogation.
I squeeze Naomi’s hand, and a slight tremor runs through her. I’ll handle whatever comes. I’ll protect her, even if it means becoming the monster everyone already thinks I am.
The cabin lies ahead, a dark shape barely visible against the darker trees. Our sanctuary, for now. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges. But for tonight, I focus on her safety, on keeping her warm, on being whatever she needs me to be.
Even if what she needs is the father of the man she just killed.
Snow swirls in our headlights as we wind through the driveway, leaving civilization behind. Naomi’s head drops to my shoulder, whether from exhaustion or trust, I’m not sure. I press a kiss to her hair, brief and fierce.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper again. A vow. A promise. A declaration of war against anyone who tries to hurt her.
Let them come. I’ve spent my life being the man in the shadows, the cleaner, the fixer. Time to put those skills to better use.
The cabin emerges from the darkness, windows dark, waiting. Like us, it holds its secrets close. Tonight, it will hold one more.
I park close to the door, not wanting Naomi to walk far in the snow. She doesn’t protest as I lift her from the truck, Powder nuzzling close to my chest. As soon as I open the door, she jumps down and immediately claims her favorite spot by the fireplace while I settle Naomi on the bed.
Naomi curls into herself, small and vulnerable against the patchwork quilt. I build a fire quickly, muscle memory taking over as my mind races through contingencies, plans, and backup plans.
I settle into my armchair, positioned to watch both Naomi and the door. Outside, snow continues to fall.
I watch Naomi’s breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claims her. Even in sleep, her face holds echoes of terror.
My son is dead. The truth of it sits like lead on my shoulders. But when I look at the bruises on Naomi’s throat, the evidence of his cruelty, I feel only fierce pride that she fought back and survived.
What kind of father does that make me?
I don’t know and I don’t want to examine it too closely. Not tonight.
Tonight, I keep watch. Tomorrow we face whatever comes.
The fire crackles, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Powder curls against Naomi’s side, purring softly. Outside, the world turns white and silent.
The snow falls thicker, isolating us from the rest of the world. Perfect weather for making things disappear.
Like bodies. Like evidence. Like the last threads of propriety holding me back from what I really want.
Focus , I tell myself. One problem at a time.
But as Naomi shifts in her sleep, I know it’s already too late for that.
I’m in too deep. Have been since she first showed up at my door months ago, bruised and desperate.
Now there’s blood between us. My son’s blood.
Nothing will ever be simple again.
The night deepens. I maintain my vigil, watching over the woman I see as something so much more precious than a daughter-in-law.
God help us both.