I suddenly feel a bit dizzy. I hold on to the doorframe to steady myself. The safe is open, but there’s nothing in it now. All of Giselle’s and Mr. Black’s clothes have been emptied from the armoires. And Mr. Black’s shoes that were on his side of the bed are gone. The bedside tables have been dusted, too, unsightly prints thumbing up through the powder left behind. Perhaps some of them are mine.
The pills are gone, even the crushed ones on the floor have vaporized. In fact, the carpets and floors seem to be the one thing in the suite that have been properly cleaned. Perhaps the police vacuumed, sucked up the traces—the microfibers and particles of the Blacks’ private lives, all caught in the confines of a single filter.
I feel a cold shiver run through me, as though Mr. Black himself, in a ghostly vapor, were pushing me aside. Get out of my way. I remember the bruises on Giselle’s arms, Oh, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I do love him, you know. That ghastly man bowled me over every time I crossed him in the suite or in the hallways, as though I were an insect or a pest that deserved to be quashed. I see him in my mind’s eye, a vile, beady-eyed creature, smoking a vile, malodorous cigar.
I feel a pulse of anger beat at my temples. Where is Giselle supposed to go now? What is she supposed to do? I wonder as much about Giselle as about myself. Mr. Rosso issued more threats this morning. Pay the rent, or get evicted. My home, this job. They are all I have left. I feel the prick of tears that I do not need right now.
Good things come to those who work hard. Clean conscience, clean life.
Gran always comes to my rescue.
I take her advice. I hustle back to my trolley and put on my rubber gloves. I spritz disinfectant on the glass tabletops, the windows, the furniture. I wipe off all the prints, all the remains of the interlopers who have been in this room. I scour the walls next, addressing the scuffs and dings that I’m certain weren’t here before the ungainly detectives arrived. I cover the mattress in immaculate white. I make the bed, letting the crisp sheets billow down. Polished doorknobs, coffee service replenished, clean drinking glasses with paper lids to vouch for their cleanliness. I work by rote, my body moving of its own accord, so many times have I done this, so many days, rooms, guests blending together in a haze. My hands tremble as I polish the gilt mirror that faces the bed. I must focus on the present, not on the past. I wipe and wipe until a perfect image of myself shines back at me.
There is only one corner of the Blacks’ bedroom left to clean, the dark corner beside Giselle’s armoire. I take my vacuum and run over and over the carpet there. I inspect the walls closely, give both walls a thorough wipe down with disinfectant. There. Erased.
I survey my handiwork, and I see the suite restored. There’s a pleasing citrus tang in the air.
It’s time.
I have avoided the bathroom, but I can no longer. It, too, has been left in a state of disarray. The towels are missing, the tissues, even the toilet-paper rolls—all gone. There’s fingerprint dust on the mirror and around the bathroom sink. I spritz and spray, I polish and replenish. In this smaller room, which due to its function must be disinfected more aggressively, the acrid scent of bleach is so strong that my nasal passages sting. I flip the switch for the fan and hear that familiar clunking sound. I quickly turn it off.
It’s time.
I remove my rubber gloves and throw them into my rubbish bin. I grab the small step stool from my trolley and set it up under the fan. I climb onto it. The fan cover pulls down easily. I push in two clips to release it completely. I gingerly place the cover beside the sink. I get back on the step stool and reach one arm up into the dark recess of the fan, farther into the unknown, until my fingertips connect with cold metal. I pull the object down and hold it in both hands. It is smaller than I thought it would be, sleek and black but surprisingly heavy. Substantial. The grip is gritty, like sandpaper or a cat’s tongue. The barrel is smooth, with a satisfying shine. Pristine. Polished. Clean.
Giselle’s gun.
Never in my life have I held anything like this. It feels alive, though I know it’s not.
Who could blame her for having it? If I were her, had been treated the way she has by Mr. Black and others, well…it’s no wonder. I can feel it, the power in my hands that makes me immediately feel safer, invincible. And yet she didn’t use it, this weapon. She didn’t use it on her husband.
Where will she go now? What will she do? And what will I? I feel the gravity in the room change, the weight of everything pushes down on my shoulders. I place the gun on the sink, climb back up the stool, and replace the fan’s cover. Back down the steps I go, then I take the gun again and carry it into the living room. It rests so nicely in the bowl of my hands. What will I do with it? How will I get it to Giselle?