Page 95 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"You literally buried your face in the collar five minutes ago."

"I was checking the detergent."

"Mhm." Frank nodded thoughtfully.

"Fabric softener analysis. Very scientific."

"I hate both of you."

"No," Gerald corrected.

"You love us."

"I tolerate you."

"You named us."

I pointed my spoon at him.

"One more word and I'm replacing you with a garden flamingo."

"You wouldn't dare."

"I absolutely would."

"You'd miss me."

"...Maybe."

"There it is. The truth."

I rolled my eyes so hard they practically filed for workers' compensation. Honestly. Imagine being psychoanalyzed before breakfast by decorative lawn ornaments. Therapy had really gone downhill. I carried my coffee toward the front porch, nudging the screen door open with my hip. The valley greeted me with cool mountain air, damp earth, and the soft perfume of pine needles warming beneath the timid morning sun.

Today was cleaning day. Oh, how I loved cleaning day. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Cleaning wasn't just about dust or fingerprints or muddy floors. It was about putting the world back where it belonged. Returning everything to its proper place. Erasing the little bits of chaos that quietly gathered while nobody was looking.

Some people called it obsessive. I called it maintenance.

After finishing my coffee on the porch, I wandered back inside, humming softly to myself. I changed into my designated cleaning clothes: an old white T-shirt permanently decorated with tiny bleach freckles and a pair of faded denim shorts that had survived more cleaning days than I cared to count. Perfect. I tied my hair into a messy knot before heading for the kitchen.

The tap squeaked as I turned it on, cold mountain water rushing into the large yellow bucket. I poured in a careful measure of soap before adding a splash of bleach, watching the bubbles bloom across the surface like tiny white clouds.

The familiar smell filled the room. Fresh. Clean. Lemony I pulled the bright yellow rubber gloves over my hands, snapping the cuffs against my wrists. Behind me, two tiny gasps echoed through the cottage.

"Oh no..." Gerald muttered.

I turned slowly. The two garden gnomes were standing exactly where I'd left them on the windowsill. Or… Attempting to leave. Frank had somehow shuffled himself a whole three inches farther toward the curtains. Gerald pointed dramatically at the bucket.

"It's cleaning day."

Frank's painted face filled with horror.

"I hate cleaning day."

"You don't even get dirty," I pointed out.

"We absolutely do," Gerald protested.

"Do you know how exhausting it is standing outside being admired all day?"