The Cleaner

Chapter One

Four Weeks Earlier

I steered my bike into the narrow, winding road, past high stone walls and iron gates, where large houses hunkered in landscaped gardens. Tall trees peered over the walls, time-worn sentries keeping guard. To the left, a stone plaque declared The Woodlands in gold lettering.

When I reached the bend in the road, I checked my watch. Twelve minutes after nine. It was a dangerous corner, the turn sharp. Hedgerows leaned in, making the lane even closer. There were fewer houses here, and it felt secluded. Cut off from the rest of the world.

The distant rumble of a lawn mower, a faint fiddle endeavoring, the thick blinds on upstairs windows as parents tricked their children into falling asleep. The summer night sun brighter than I could ever have imagined.

Everyone safe inside their houses.

And out here, only me.

I took the bend, stopping when I saw the large pothole, the tarmac crumbled into the deep crevice. I sized it up, willing my heart to slow.

At the end of the lane was a sign marked Private! It didn’t stop people from climbing the gate and entering the bluebell woods, though. I was there only yesterday, my feet planted in the carpet of blue-purple flowers on green. Their little noddy heads on my bare ankles, while butterflies rose and landed. From around me came a low hum of bees.

I checked my watch again. Nine thirteen.

Then, behind me, I heard a low roar. A car accelerating as it turned out of the T-junction, heading this way.

I waited, gripping the bike handles, and counted down from forty. At fifteen, the car was nearer, on the far side of the sharp bend. I pushed down on the pedals.

Nine, eight. Holding tight, I picked up my pace, making sure to aim for the rut in the road just ahead. Push harder, go faster.

Seven, six, five. There was so much room for error here. My hands were slick with sweat, and I grasped the bars even tighter.

Four, three, two—The car took the bend. Squeezing my eyes shut, every muscle in my body tensed, I hit the pothole.

The wheel jammed into the crumbling tarmac, and the jolt spread from my hands through my bones. Letting out a yelp, I fell forward, jabbing my hip on the handlebars. All I knew was gravity, the pull of the rough ground, the blur of the wildflowers on the side of the road. I bounced off my knee and landed hard. For a moment, I was jolted out of my skin, out of my body.

Sharp pain tore through me. I clutched my knee, cursing under my breath. It hurt so much more than I’d thought it would: everything felt bruised and raw. The world seemed to tip to the side.

The Jeep screeched to a stop. Doors flew open, and two men in soccer gear rushed out. I looked down to find that my old gray cotton joggers were ripped at the knee and blood was trickling from the broken skin there. There was a pile of fresh dog shit where I sat cradling my knee, and the stench of it turned my stomach. I gulped deep breaths to steady the wildness inside.

“Are you all right?” The younger man—the driver—called as he glanced at me, then the bumper. He was lean and athletic, with dark blond hair and striking features. He moved nearer until he was towering over me. “What happened?”

“Did the Jeep hit you?” The older man crouched beside me as I dropped my backpack from my shoulders. He flicked a practiced eye over me. He didn’t look like a man who was easily fooled, so I made sure to twist my face with pain. It wasn’t hard. “Where does it hurt?”

The smell of dog shit rose from the ground, and with it my discomfort. These men and their easy confidence, their after-sport glow.

“The Jeep didn’t touch you.” The driver sounded uncertain, though. “Was it the pothole?”

“It came so fast.” I gestured to the sharp bend. “The car.”

The two men glanced at each other, and a dart of satisfaction shot through me. They knew they had been going too fast. It was a blind corner, and habit was a dangerous thing. They were used to the road being quiet after their weekly soccer game. Strangers didn’t often venture this way. I was a deviation, a break from the norm.

“I’m Lincoln—Linc,” the driver said. “And this is Paul.”

“You took an awful tumble,” Paul said with cheerful sympathy. “Let’s get you back on your feet. Sure, you’re still in one piece.”

He straightened up, reaching out a hand, but I ignored it.

“It hurts,” I pushed. “Maybe we call the police?”

The men looked at each other, worry shadowing their eyes, and Paul dropped his hand, saying, “How about we see if anything is broken first?”

“I live right there.” Linc pointed to a house hidden behind trees. But I knew that already. “And Paul here is a doctor. Please, come inside and we’ll patch you up.”

If only it were that simple.

“Bring her in, and I’ll move the Jeep and the bike,” Paul said. He was a bear-like man, tall with a body that straddled the line between muscular and overweight. His cheeks were slightly jowly, and his thinning hair was a little longer than you’d expect. Despite the concern clouding his expression, he seemed like a man who smiled a lot.

Linc nodded at the bike. “Your wheel is damaged.”

I let out a gasp of real dismay when I saw the skewed front wheel. I couldn’t afford to get it fixed.

Linc held out a hand and this time, I took it. I tried a step, but my ankle buckled and my hip screamed; my head spun and I thought I might fall again. At my halted intake of breath, Linc looked at me and said, “May I?”

Then he lifted me into his arms and stepped toward the gate. It was unexpected and intimate, and I felt my cheeks grow hot. Tentatively, I wound my arm around his neck, but I couldn’t look at his face, suddenly too close to mine. I barely dared to breathe. Instead, I turned away, looking at a black cast-metal sign that said Woodland House in silver Celtic lettering.

Linc walked up the garden path, carrying me in his arms as if I were a bride. The delicate perfume of the flowers in the summer night, the steady feeling of his chest and arms as he held me. The reassuring rhythm of his breathing. I wondered if he, like Nico, enjoyed playing the savior.

The house loomed above us, old-fashioned in style with large bay windows and an imposing door frame. It was unlike anything I was used to back home. But the smell of sweat on Linc’s soccer jersey was strangely comforting. Familiar, somehow. Like Nico, long ago, when he coached the under-twelves down at the civic center. The thought of Nico in the sunshine on the threadbare pitch made me smile, and for a brief, welcome moment, I forgot. But too quickly, it all came rushing back and my smile fell.

The front door opened, and I turned my head to see a woman waiting at the threshold. She watched us approach.

“That’s Amber, my wife.” Linc glanced down at me as he carried me between the rose bushes. I met his gaze, took in his hazel eyes and golden-brown hair, and it felt like I was on a wild carnival ride. Being here, in The Woodlands, so far away from home, carried in the arms of a stranger. Everything was finally starting.

But as he studied me, Linc’s brow creased. Something was bothering him. Maybe I seemed familiar. As if he knew me from somewhere—but how was that possible? A foreign girl picked off the side of the road. Feeling a flash of alarm, I averted my eyes, fixing them on the woman instead.

Centered in the white door frame, she was like a Polaroid image come to life. Amber.

Her face was carefully blank, her arms folded. She was blond and slim, dwarfed by an enormous red-and-cream kimono, a barefoot queen in her robes. Beneath, she wore black leggings and a tank. For some reason, I drew closer to Linc’s chest.

“A little accident at the bend,” Linc called out as he walked me up the steps.

“We’re going to fix her up,” Paul said cheerfully, climbing out of the Jeep, which he’d parked in the drive. “Amber, can you bring the antiseptic cream? Gauze?”

Still holding me firmly, Linc stepped over the threshold onto geometric tiles. Wide-eyed, I took in the stained-glass front door we’d passed, the staircase with the iron railing, the chandelier. I noticed everything, committing it to memory.

On the left was a living room with velvet and leather and magazines. On my right, a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Two large, lean dogs watched from the living room. One of them let out a low growl. Mama Bear always said that dogs had a nose for trouble, that they could smell robbers and ghosts. These dogs eyed me carefully, as though they knew.

“That’s Edward and Bella.” Linc nodded to the dogs. I raised an eyebrow. Linc laughed, and I felt a rumbling in his chest. “Not my choice. I prefer books written before the twenty-first century. Amber is a terrible romantic.”

We moved to the large kitchen, which had clearly been modernized recently. Linc carried me past the kitchen island and the long blond-wood dining table to the glass walls, where couches and armchairs were arranged. I could imagine Amber curled up, tea in hand, the sun streaming into the room.