Chapter 2
The lights in the interrogation room were blindingly white.
I sat on a cold chair, facing two cops.
One was older, looked like a seasoned veteran. I would call him David.
The other was young, with sharp eyes and a "confess, and you'll get off easy" look on his face. I would call him Jackson.
Jackson slapped a stack of photos down on the table. The photos showed the results of my work.
In the photo, the living room was so spotless that one could eat off the floor, shoes lined up like soldiers, and a table polished until it practically sparkled.
"Alright, Simon. Why?" Jackson's voice was dead serious. "You broke into someone's place, but you did it so... so..."
He hesitated, as if he couldn't find the right word.
David chimed in, his voice tinged with a kind of mind-blown bewilderment, like his whole worldview had been shattered. "So... so clean?"
I stayed silent.
How was I supposed to explain this?
Should I tell them my damn hands wouldn't stop?
Seeing I wasn't talking, Jackson pulled out another photo, a close-up of the note.
"'Your place is worse than a pigsty'?" he read aloud, his mouth twitching. "You stole money and left a note trash-talking the owner?"
"That's not an insult," I finally spoke up, my tone serious as I corrected him. "It's a helpful reminder."
Jackson looked like he'd swallowed a fly.
David rubbed his temples and switched gears, asking, "How much did you take?"
"600 dollars," I replied, totally upfront.
"Why that exact amount?"
I explained, "Five hours of cleaning, 100 dollars per hour, plus the cost of supplies—"
"Stop," Jackson cut me off, looking like his IQ had been insulted. "Are you seriously calling burglary a service?"
What else was I supposed to do? Should I make her place messier? That'd be inhumane.
I decided to keep quiet.
Just then, the door to the interrogation room swung open.
A woman walked in, wearing pajamas, her hair all over the place.
She yawned, like she'd been dragged out of bed. But with no makeup, her face was so flawless it was almost unreal.
She was the owner of the place, Nina Turner.
Nina glanced around the interrogation room, then settled her eyes on me. Instead of anger, there was nothing but pure curiosity.
"Hey, sir," she said, her voice rough from waking up, "is there a misunderstanding here?"
David pointed at me. "Ms. Turner, this is Mr. Blackwood. He broke into your place this afternoon. We suspect he—"
"Oh, that guy." Nina suddenly smiled, and it was like spring sunshine, so warm that it threw me for a loop.
Nina walked over to the table, picked up the photo of the note, and gave it a careful once-over.
She nodded approvingly. Then she glanced at me and said, "Nice handwriting. One hundred dollars an hour? That's pretty steep."
Wait, was that what she was focusing on?
I thought my whole worldview got flipped upside down.
Jackson cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "Ms. Turner, he admits he took 600 dollars from your place."
"Yeah, that's right." Nina nodded.
"So..." Jackson pressed.
"So." Nina dug into her oversized pajama pocket, pulled out a crumpled contract, and slapped it on the table. "He's my new housekeeper. That's his advance payment. What's the problem?"
The interrogation room went dead silent.
I stared at that employment contract that had materialized out of nowhere, my mind totally blank.
David and Jackson exchanged looks, utterly dumbfounded, like they'd eaten ten flies.
"H-Housekeeper?" Jackson stammered.
"Yeah," Nina replied, looking all innocent. "He's a real character. He loves to drop by for surprise spot checks.
"We call it 'full-immersion deep cleaning.' Trust me, you guys wouldn't get it. It's the hottest new thing in our industry."
Since when did I ever do that?
I watched Nina make up nonsense with a totally straight face, and for the first time, I started doubting my entire existence.
Was this woman's brain as much of a disaster zone as her apartment?