The dead didn't mind the smell of bleach. That was the most important lesson Elara had learned in her seven years as a forensic cleaner. The living, however, were a different story. They found the chemical assault on their nostrils just as offensive as the blood, grime, and other unmentionables she was paid to scrub away. Elara preferred the bleach. It was honest. It told you, in no uncertain terms, that something had ended here, and now it was time to start over.
This job was particularly messy. A man in his late 60s, a reclusive artist named Mr. Alistair, had died on his kitchen floor, and his two prize-winning Dobermans had, over the course of three days, done what dogs do when left alone with their deceased master. Elara didn't flinch. She just saw it as a puzzle of biohazardous waste, a twisted, macabre work of art she was tasked with deconstructing. She worked methodically, the gentle hum of her HEPA air filter the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. She hummed a tune as she went, a morbid little waltz she'd made up for jobs like this. It was a good day to be a professional cleaner of the macabre. The pay was excellent, and the client was blissfully unaware of her methods.
As she worked, her phone buzzed with a text message. A new client. A woman named Seraphina. She specialized in "unseemly" deaths, which was a polite way of saying the police had already done their thing, and now a discreet specialist was needed to erase the memory of the mess. Elara opened the text. "A suicide. A young woman. Minimal mess." Elara's lip curled into a cynical smile. "Minimal mess" was a phrase invented by people who had never seen a suicide.
The address was in the city's most affluent district, a glass tower overlooking the harbor. This meant the client was rich, which meant the mess would be hidden behind a veil of tasteful art and expensive furniture. Elara packed up her tools, the pungent smell of the chemicals clinging to her clothes.
When she arrived at the address, she was met by a man in an impeccably tailored black suit. He had a serene, almost unnerving calm about him. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, and they held an unsettling mix of grief and something else—something Elara couldn't quite place.
"You must be Elara," he said, his voice a low, melodic baritone. "I'm Julian. Thank you for coming. I… I don't know who else to call."
"I was told it was minimal," Elara said, her gaze sweeping over the polished marble floors and abstract art that decorated the lobby.
Julian's lip twitched in what might have been a half-smile. "It is. It was... peaceful. That's why I'm so confused."
He led her to an apartment on the top floor. The door opened to a breathtaking view of the city skyline. But Elara's eyes were drawn to the center of the room, to a woman lying on a Persian rug. She was beautiful, dressed in a flowing white gown, her dark hair fanned out like a halo. In her hand, she clutched a single, flawless white orchid. The scene was staged. Too perfect.
"She was my fiancée," Julian said, his voice quiet. "Her name was Isabella. We were to be married in two weeks."
Elara knelt, her professional curiosity overriding her sense of politeness. She noted the position of the body, the placement of the orchid. Isabella had died with her eyes open, a faint, serene smile on her lips. It wasn't the face of someone who had taken their own life. It was the face of a person who was prepared to leave.
"Did she leave a note?" Elara asked.
Julian shook his head. "No. Just the orchid. A gift from a friend. She said it was for a special occasion."
Elara stood up and turned to Julian, her gaze piercing. "Nothing is minimal in my line of work, Mr. Julian. Every detail tells a story. And this story… it doesn't add up."
Julian met her stare, his stormy eyes holding a glint of something that was not grief, not sorrow, but a deep, unsettling curiosity. "Then I suppose," he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a true, though barely perceptible, smile, "you have your work cut out for you."