The Cleaner

2:30 AM. That damned burner phone rang again.

I opened my eyes, staring at the crack in the ceiling. Insomnia was a side effect of this job, along with numbness to the smell of blood and loss of faith in humanity.

The phone screen glowed faintly blue in the darkness. Encrypted message. Set to self-destruct in thirty seconds.

[Priority assignment. Alpine, NJ. 47 Mountain Ave. VIP client. $150,000. Accept?]

I looked at my mother's photo—that faded picture on the nightstand, with a rosary hidden behind the frame. The thing Mom clutched in her hand that morning, pill bottles scattered across the floor.

"Another rich person needs to have their sins cleaned up," I whispered to the photo. "And I'm the one who makes those sins disappear, Mom."

I clicked "Accept."

Twenty minutes later, my old van pulled out of the rundown Newark South Side neighborhood. My trunk was packed with equipment—Tyvek protective suits, industrial-grade cleaners, UV lights, encrypted cameras.

I'd been doing this job for three years. Cleaning crime scenes for Umbra Solutions—the "accidents" rich people couldn't control. Each job paid between fifty and two hundred thousand. Enough to get by.

Alpine. New Jersey's wealthy enclave, where homes started at eight million. My world was split between two parts: the daytime $12-an-hour laundromat, and the nights at these blood-soaked crime scenes.

The gate opened automatically before I arrived.

The underground garage lights were blinding. I took a deep breath. The smell of blood mixed with champagne and cocaine drifted down from upstairs.

I'd smelled this combination too many times. Rich people's parties—alcohol, drugs, sex, then death. They treated lives like disposable toys.

Protective suit, mask, goggles. In the mirror, I became an alien—anonymous, detached. Perfect.

I grabbed my toolbox and headed up the stairs. The scene at the indoor pool made me pause for half a second.

The water was deep red, like wine. No, thicker than wine. It was blood. A lot of blood.

A body floated in the center of the pool. Young woman, facedown, dark hair spreading in the water. Torn black evening gown, pale back covered with bruises.

The pool deck was a mess—shattered champagne bottles, bloodstains, scattered white powder. And one red-soled high heel.

In the living room, four men casually smoked cigars. They wore expensive casual clothes, drinking whiskey, watching financial news, as if there wasn't a corpse nearby.

The leader turned around.

"You're fast," he said with a slight Italian accent. "Umbra said you were the best."

My heart skipped a beat.

I recognized this man.

Vincent Moretti. Twenty-seven, heir to the Moretti family. My daytime boss Tony Moretti's nephew. That asshole who came to "inspect" the laundromat every week, yelling at employees.

But he didn't recognize me at all. The protective suit hid my figure, the mask and goggles covered my face, and I deliberately lowered my voice.

"I need to see the scene," I said, voice calm and professional. "Then quote a price."

Vincent waved his hand: "Whatever. Just finish quickly." He turned back to the sofa, as if he'd just been discussing takeout.

I walked toward the pool. Each step felt unusually heavy.

I shined my flashlight on the water surface. The body slowly turned halfway.

The face came into view.

I froze completely.

It was Gianna DeLuca.

That regular at Bella Vista Laundromat. The one who mocked my cheap clothes every day, deliberately threw dirty towels in my face, called me "loser."

Now she floated in this blood-red pool, her face covered in bruises.

I forced myself closer, examining with a professional eye:

Deep strangulation marks on her neck—strangled first, then thrown in the pool.

Defensive wounds on her wrists—she fought back.

The dress violently torn—typical sexual assault followed by murder.

"Hey!" Vincent shouted from the living room. "How long will this take? We want to continue the party."

I turned back. Those four men were preparing fresh champagne and cocaine. By the pool. Next to the corpse.

My fingers clenched the cleaner bottle, knuckles turning white.

But I just turned around: "Four hours."

Vincent walked over, standing by the pool, looking down at Gianna's body from above.

"She got too wild at the party," he said, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "Couldn't handle all that cocaine she took."

One of his friends—a blonde young man—laughed: "Yeah, crazy enough. Should've known she couldn't play with us."

Another added: "These women, always think they can handle it."

I watched them, watched the complete lack of guilt on their faces.

Vincent turned to me: "Clean it all. Everything. Pool, deck, cameras. I want it to look like nothing happened."

He paused, lighting a cigarette: "And take this bitch away. She's stinking up my house."

I just nodded.

"Price?" Vincent asked.

I straightened up: "Pool and body, $150,000. Digital cleanup—surveillance, phones, any cloud backups, another $50,000. Total $200,000."

Vincent didn't even hesitate. "Deal," he said. "How long?"

"Four hours. You and your friends need to leave. My work process can't have witnesses."

Vincent looked at me appreciatively: "Professional. I like it."

"I never disappoint my clients."

The sound of the SUV engine faded away. The mansion finally fell silent.

Just me and Gianna's corpse.

"You called me a loser every day at the laundromat," I stood by the pool, looking at the floating body, speaking softly. "You threw dirty towels in my face, humiliated me in front of everyone."

"Now you're lying here. Dead at the hands of those rich people you were trying to social climb with."

I crouched down, my gloved hand touching the water surface. "We're all just their toys."