Six months later…
Bert’s office smelled like burnt coffee and the kind of stress that never quite leaves the walls.
The place should’ve been shut down years ago, but it kept limping along, probably because the rent was paid in excuses.
The linoleum curled up at the edges, the blinds hung crooked, and there was this mystery stain on the carpet nobody had asked about since Obama was still president.
Millie sat in a cracked vinyl chair that glued itself to the backs of her thighs every time she moved.
Clara was next to her, chewing the corner of her thumbnail.
Across the desk, Bert looked way too happy for a guy in a polo shirt with a mustard smear on the collar.
He slapped a stack of papers down like he was dealing cards.
“Now listen up, ladies,” he said, way too chipper for nine in the morning.
“This is a good one. Lucrative.”
Millie raised an eyebrow.
Whenever Bert said “lucrative,” it usually meant some rich guy wanted his floors scrubbed with organic tears for pennies over minimum wage.
He jabbed a stubby, ink-stained finger at the top sheet.
“You remember that fancy tower gig last year, Amelia? Same kind of setup. Confidentiality agreement, nothing crazy.”
The penthouse.
Her one-night stand.
Millie’s stomach did a slow flip.
Clara elbowed her under the table.
Millie shot her a glare.
Clara just grinned wider.
“This one’s in Hillcrest Heights,” Bert went on, tapping the paper.
“Super exclusive. High-profile owner. Doesn’t want any fuss, just a clean house. May and Rufus are on the crew, too.”
Clara leaned in to read the address.
“Hillcrest Heights?
Isn’t that where the yards are bigger than my whole apartment building?”
“Yep,” Bert said, puffing up as he lived there.
“Just a big house, nothing you can’t handle. Toilets, floors, counters—same as anywhere else.”
Millie bit the inside of her cheek.
Meanwhile,e she was sleeping on a friend’s couch and dodging her mom’s texts like they were collection calls.
Bert’s voice dropped, suddenly serious.
“One rule—this client doesn’t want their name out there. The last crew I sent got sloppy. Took selfies, told their cousin who they were cleaning for. Ended up with lawyers and me writing apology emails at three a.m. So no phones. In and out. Quiet.”
Millie let out a slow breath and caught Clara’s eye.
They both knew “private” could mean anything—eccentric, paranoid, loaded and strange, or loaded and shady.
Usually a mix.
“Sure,” Millie said.
“We’ve got it.”
Bert slid the contracts over.
“Sign. No phones, no pictures, no gossip. Not a word about what you see. Violations mean legal trouble, you’re fired, and probably worse.”
Millie skimmed the page.
Standard stuff—don’t talk, don’t post, don’t exist too loudly.
Breach could lead to “legal action,” “termination,” and some fuzzy “further consequences.”
But then her eyes hit the pay number.
It was…
a lot.
Maybe even shut her mom up about the storage unit threat.
Clara raised a brow.
“This isn’t some celebrity’s house, is it?”
Bert snorted, which turned into a cough.
“Nah. Just a big-shot business type. Do the job, get the check. Simple.”
Millie and Clara locked eyes for a second, then grabbed the pens.
They were halfway to standing when Bert tacked on, “Oh—and one more thing. There’s an art room in the house. Stay out. Don’t go in, don’t touch anything. Don’t even look too hard.”
Millie gave him a flat look.
“Let me guess. That’s where they hide the bodies.”
Bert grinned.
“Funny, Foster. Now get moving.”
The four of them—Millie, Clara, May, and Rufus—stood at the bottom of the driveway staring up at the house.
It was one of those big modernized Victorians—stone and sharp steel edges, all brooding and expensive-looking.
Millie couldn’t look away.
The place screamed money but felt empty, like someone built it for Instagram and then forgot about it.
Huge windows, perfect driveway, but something just felt…
wrong.
May shifted her supply bag on her hip and squinted at the front.
“Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s castle got a glow-up and then got depressed.”
Rufus didn’t comment.
He just checked his phone and started walking.
Inside, it got weirder.
The air had that stale, nobody-lives-here smell.
No clutter, no signs of actual people.
Like the house was staged, and the owners never showed up.
“I thought this was supposed to be an urgent clean,” Millie muttered as she took in the giant foyer.
“Looks like nobody’s been here since flip phones were a thing.”
She moved through the downstairs—no crumbs on the counters, no fingerprints, nothing.
Just big, echoey, expensive nothing.
“Living room, kitchen, bathrooms down here?” Rufus called, already heading for the supply closet.
Clara gave him a thumbs-up.
“Yeah. We’ll take it upstairs. Try not to break anything expensive.”
Millie followed Clara up, bucket banging against her leg.
The second they hit the landing, the air felt different—heavier, quieter.
She stepped into the first bedroom and stopped short.
It looked like a hotel room from a magazine—sunlight through sheer curtains, everything matched and perfect.
The bathroom sparkled like it had never been used.
Every room was the same.
Huge bed, huge bathroom, zero evidence of life.
No toothbrush out.
Nothing.
By the third bedroom, Millie wasn’t impressed anymore.
She was just bored.
And a little creeped out.
May passed her on the stairs, shaking her head.
“Why does every bedroom have two bathrooms?
Were they planning a bladder apocalypse?”
“Rich people problems,” Clara yelled from down the hall.
“More places to cry when the money doesn’t fix the loneliness.”
Millie snorted, but the laugh didn’t stick.
She was tired of wiping spotless surfaces that didn’t need it.
Then she reached the end of the hallway.
There was one more door.
Closed.
Plain.
Painted this deep green color that stood out against everything else.
Millie stared at it.
She knew she shouldn’t.
Her hand moved anyway.
She turned the knob just enough to crack it open.
The smell hit her first—oil paint, linseed, turpentine.
Sharp.
Familiar.
Like walking into a memory.
She pushed the door wider.
Inside, it was alive.
Paint splattered on the floor, the walls, the furniture.
An easel stood in the center like someone had just stepped out for coffee and would be right back.
Brushes everywhere, sketchbooks stacked crooked, rags smeared with color.
A beautiful, chaotic, real mess.
Millie stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, heart tapping fast.
Bert said stay out.
For once, he might’ve been right.
But this room was the only part of the whole damn house that felt like someone actually lived here.
And even though every sensible part of her screamed to back out and shut the door, she took one step inside.