"You had
never been more beautiful, all angles
like panes, shutters, glass."

-
"A Quiet Moment" by Heather Bell

The cleanup is always the hardest part, a woman thought. She looked around at the flat, noting every bit of soiled carpet, tipped cups, broken glass, and other detritus with a tired feeling. She wasn't usually the one to do cleanup - most of the time it wasn't even necessary - so, needless to say, she was not looking forward to the job. She looked over her main work one last time, though, and found comfort in its elegance and execution. At least she'd gotten that much perfect, so she'd get paid where she was well deserved.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket, long, drawn out durations that signaled a call rather than the text that she would have much preferred. She hated talking while on a job - unless, of course, it was to have a little fun with someone.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Are you done yet?" said the familiar voice on the other end, distinctly boring. "We're swamped, you know."

"Yes, I'm done," she huffed, kicking an empty red cup across the room. "Well, almost."

"Don't be faffing around, darling - you're all I've got tonight," the man said sternly.

"It's not like I decided to do cleanup," she retorted. "You know that takes a while."

"I'll make an exception today, then."

"What do you mean, you'll 'make an exception'? The cleanup's in the job description this time, so I've got to do it, or the client will kill me."

"Cleanup was extra. The client said he didn't care, just that cleanup would be easier on him. Secrecy and alibis and all that."

She nearly threw the phone at the wall in exasperation. "You know I could have been caught by now, right? Screw this." So saying, she threw the filthy butter knife she'd been holding down at the mangled body, gathered her KA-BAR and her switchblade, and left the flat through the fire escape. It was midnight and the neighborhood was quiet, so thankfully no extra measures needed to be taken tonight.

"Tell me you're coming back now. I don't have the time to be waiting for you to finish up," said the man on the line.

"Yes, I'm coming back, Val," she said shortly, and then ended the call and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She put the KA-BAR back inside her leather jacket and the switchblade in her other jeans pocket once they were both wiped off. The alleyway opened up to the dark Surrey street where her chaperoned car lie in wait for her. The car started as she approached, and the doors unlocked as she reached for the handle to the backseat.

"How was it, ma'am?" asked the driver, eyeing her through the rearview mirror.

"Nothing special," she told him distantly. "'Nother college kid too deep in conspiracy and too drunk to keep his mouth shut. I reckon his confidant will be on the list for next week." She watched his fingers tap on the steering wheel. "…Home, if you will. I'm… not in the mood for another job tonight."

A/N: The poem that I got this title from, quoted at the beginning of the chapter, is the beautiful work of Heather Bell. I do not own it, but I receive her permission to use it. queenhrosie . deviantart . com is her page (no spaces.) Please check her out! You will not regret it, I promise.

Reviews are much appreciated and highly encouraged.