Page 21 of Property of Tacoma

Tacoma nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything.” He gestures down the hall. “First door on the right.”

I watch them leave, then turn back to survey the carnage before me. Blood splattered across the wall, brain matter on the ceiling, the spray-painted message declaring a new king in town.

Time to get to work.

First things first. I pull out the burner phone I’ll give Tacoma once I’m done documenting the scene, and take photos of everything. I make sure to capture the scene from multiple angles. He can destroy the photos later, but I need them now to ensure I don’t miss anything during cleanup. Plus, the club might need them for something later.

Next, I lay out more plastic sheeting, covering the floor around the body. From my bag, I retrieve a small handheld vacuum with a HEPA filter for collecting the smaller fragments, and heavy-duty trash bags for the larger pieces.

I work on autopilot, my mind and body working from muscle memory. This is where I excel. With my eidetic memory, I turn chaos back into order, erasing all evidence of violence as if it never happened. My OCD tendencies, which made me a targetfor bullies as a kid, make me exceptional at this work. I notice patterns, details, and inconsistencies that others are blind to.

As I clean the room, I consider the message painted on the wall. “THERE’S A NEW KING IN TOWN.” Someone’s making a power play against the Kings. But who? And why kill the mayor in their club?

I’m halfway through cleaning the wall sprayed with brain matter when the door opens. I turn to see Tacoma standing there, two bottles of water in his hands.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” he says, his eyes taking in my progress.

I realize I’ve been working for over an hour without a break. “Thanks,” I say, peeling off one glove to accept the bottle.

He leans against the doorframe, watching me. “You’re good at this.”

I take a long drink before answering. “I should be. Been doing it since I was sixteen.” Well, sorta.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Sixteen?”

I shrug, capping the bottle. “Family business. My grandfather was the cleaner for the Saints before me.”

Tacoma’s eyes roam over the room, noting how much cleaner it already looks.

“Any thoughts on who might have done this?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“We’ve got our suspicions.”

Accepting the vague answer, I return to work, aware of him still watching me. “You don’t have to stand guard. I’m not going to steal the stripper pole.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Just making sure you have everything you need.”

“I’m good,” I assure him, turning back to the task at hand. “This is going to take a few more hours.”

He pushes off from the doorframe. “Right. I’ll get out of your hair.”

After he leaves, I exhale slowly.

Focus, Cali. You’ve got a job to do.

CHAPTER FIVE

Eyes trained on Bash and Gator sitting across from me, I watch both of them doom scroll on their phones like a couple of zombies. I shake my head at the insanity of it. People and their damn cellphones. Missing out on life happening around them, and they don’t even realize it. One day, they’ll look up and wish they had a rewind button to really live their lives, but it’ll be too late.

I glance over to the clock on the wall and sigh.

We’ve been in the office waiting for Foxy to finish her “work” for the past two hours, and the tension in my body is wound so tight I feel like I’m gonna fucking snap.

Gator snorts, breaking the silence.

“You watching those stupid cat videos on TikTok again?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at my enforcer.

He shrugs his massive tattooed shoulders without looking up from his screen. “Maybe.”