Chapter 2
Time to work. Step one: photographs—documenting the scene from every angle. These photos will be stored on my encrypted hard drive. My insurance policy.
Then I start the industrial pump. The bloody water begins to swirl, sink, drain into the septic system.
Once the pool empties, I pull out the Luminol reagent.
Kill all the lights.
In the darkness, I press the spray nozzle—
Blue luminescence explodes.
Pool tiles, deck, sofa armrests, even the ceiling—glowing blood traces everywhere.
"Jesus Christ." I suck in a sharp breath.
The blood spatter pattern tells me the truth: Gianna was beaten in the living room first, dragged to the couch and assaulted, then struggled toward the pool, and finally drowned. The blood spray on the ceiling means someone swung a heavy object with force.
"This is murder." I grit my teeth. "Premeditated torture and homicide."
I walk toward the body, crouch down. My waterproof gloves touch Gianna's ice-cold skin.
But when I turn over her arm—I freeze.
Inner arm, a row of neat puncture marks. But the location's wrong, the angle's wrong.
"These aren't drug injection marks," I lean closer, "They're from blood draws. Repeated, systematic blood draws."
Who regularly draws blood from a call girl?
Her right hand's her thumb web has obvious calluses—the marks of prolonged keyboard use.
"You're a programmer?"
Look at her fingernails—tiny metal fragments, glittering under UV light. Electronic components.
"I thought you were just a laundromat girl. What secrets were you hiding?"
One more detail: Gianna's right hand is clutching something tight. I pry open her rigid fingers with my glove—a micro SD card.
I immediately slip it into my gear bag's hidden pocket. Then I search through her handbag.
Found it—a broken pinhole camera. The lens violently torn off, but the memory card's still there.
Behind the sanitary pad box in the bathroom, a second burner phone.
The work's not done yet.
I log into Vincent's laptop—this idiot doesn't even have a password.
Open the smart home system. Security camera interface: 8 cameras, full coverage.
"Delete all footage from 8 PM to 4 AM tonight." I type the command.
But before hitting confirm, I insert my encrypted USB drive and copy all the original files.
Cleaning a crime scene doesn't mean helping murderers destroy evidence.
Just as I'm about to exit, I notice the history. Scrolling back—
Gianna's face appears repeatedly in the footage.
Not once or twice—at least 15 times. Over the past three months, every time alone with Vincent.
But Gianna's expression isn't pleasure, isn't flattery—it's observation, recording, gathering.
"You're not just a party girl." I stare at this evidence. "You were investigating them."
But why?
The cleanup enters its critical phase.
Hydrogen peroxide pours over the pool tiles, hissing, white foam erupting wildly. Blood molecules disintegrating.
Enzyme cleaner sprayed on the sofa, deck, walls—breaking down residual proteins and DNA.
Ozone generator activated, the stench of blood replaced by fresh ionized air.
Finally, UV verification. UV light sweeps every corner.
Clean. Spotless. As if nothing ever happened.
"This is why Umbra says I'm the best," I turn off the UV light. "Because I make evil disappear completely."
But the body remains.
I unzip the body bag, take a deep breath.
Lifting her—surprisingly light, only 110 pounds. Ice-cold skin, rigid limbs.
After placing her in the bag, I secure the evidence and load her into the van's rear cooler.
Finally I text Vincent: [Done. Check it yourself.]
The reply is almost instant: [Good job. Don't fuck this up.]
Three seconds later, Bitcoin payment notification: $200,000. Through a mixer, triple encrypted, untraceable.
I stare at the numbers. This is a year's salary at the laundromat. Blood money.
Transfer $50,000 to Umbra: "Commission."
Six AM, the horizon glows with sky's going gray.
I drive away from Alpine, Gianna's body in the back seat. I watch in the rearview mirror as the mansion recedes, that eight-million-dollar fortress of sin.
"What were you looking for, Gianna?" I mutter to the body. "Why you?"
The burner phone buzzes again.
Umbra's confirmation message: "Payment received. $200,000 transferred. Client satisfied. Excellent work, Phantom-7."
I stare at the screen, suddenly feeling a chill.
Vincent transferred the money without batting an eye. He was too eager, too desperate to make Gianna disappear.
I touch the SD card in my gear bag.
"What did you discover?"
I need to get home, need to see what's on that card. But right now I have another problem—Gianna's body.
I can't dump her in the Hudson River—bodies float. Can't bury her in the Meadowlands either—that's Moretti family territory.
I drive through Newark, arriving at an abandoned warehouse district in Port Newark. Here I rent an industrial freezer, hidden behind a row of rusted shipping containers.
I push Gianna's body bag into the freezer, set the temperature. Twenty below zero, can preserve for a long time.
"I'm sorry." I look at the bag. "Whoever you were, you didn't deserve to die like this."
My phone alarm goes off. Eight AM. Laundromat opening time.
I have one hour to shower, change clothes, transform from the cleaner back to my regular nobody self.
But this time, my car carries something extra—fragments of truth.
"I'll find the answers," I grip the steering wheel. "Not for you. For myself."
My reflection in the mirror smirked back at me.
"Eight hours from now, Vincent Moretti." I murmur. "You'll be yelling at me in the laundromat. You'll make me clean your toilets."
"You'll never know."
"The person who cleaned up your murder scene tonight."
"Was me."
