The winter air bit at my cheeks as I approached the shaken cleaner. I wrapped my coat tighter; the chill wasn’t just from the cold. An officer stood ready, clipboard in hand.
“Any chance someone might have access to your house?” he asked.
“No, absolutely not,” I said, thinking of our security measures.
Minutes felt like hours as the officers checked the house. The cleaner whispered, “I think someone is upstairs.” My heart pounded.
When my husband arrived, the lead officer revealed: someone had been inside—a so-called “friend of the family,” a name from the past.
Relief and anger collided. Old stories surfaced silently between us.
“We’ll sort this out,” he said, squeezing my hand.
As the officers left, I realized that while I’d hired someone to clean, I had uncovered the dust of yesterday myself.