I searched every corner of the laundry room. I couldn’t find anything that would be causing that smell.
But when I drew closer to the hamper, I realized the smell was coming from inside.
“What the—” I opened the lid and looked down. And gagged.
Fletcher had dropped a bag of clothes in the hamper. It smelled like death. Apparently, he’d done more than just stop by to check and see if I was home earlier. He’d had an ulterior motive.
Nasty laundry.
Without another thought, I scooped up the bag and tossed the entire thing in the washer, then I poured a bunch of deodorizing laundry detergent in and switched the water temp to hot, hot hot.
All the hot.
Anything to kill that horrendous smell.
I grabbed the hamper and set it outside on my back porch, then I searched my cleaning supply cupboard to find a pine tree-scented candle. I set it on the shelf and lit it, hoping it—mixed with the bleach smell—would erase the horridness from the laundry room.
Any sadness I’d felt about breaking up with Fletcher was smashed to smithereens the moment I spied his filthy laundry. Shattered like a brittle piece of pottery.
With my newfound energy, it made it easier to do what I’d originally set out to do.
I gathered all of Fletcher’s random personal belongings he had stashed around my house. Sweatshirts hung on the coat rack at the back door. Spare keys in my junk drawer. His favorite travel mug.
His spare charger cords. It all went into the same bag.
After collecting everything, I went into my room and looked at my floating shelf lined with baseball caps. Gifts from Fletcher. He loved his hats and was always wearing one. When I first bought him a SF hat, I was worried he’d think it was too cheesy, too clingy that I was using a San Francisco hat to represent our initials. Instead of making fun of me for my sentimentality, he’d scooped me off my feet and kissed me until I couldn’t remember my own name. Ever since then, he’d been buying us matching SF hats.
I shoved all the San Francisco hats into another bag. I didn’t need to see our SF initials on a hat all the time. It was too painful.
Staring at the haul, I was ninety-five percent sure I’d made the right decision to dump him.
I think.
But I couldn’t keep doing this. I deserved better. And if he was only staying with me out of convenience, then he deserved better too. I wasn’t so lonely and desperate that I needed to stay with someone who didn’t want me.
It was the right decision. I knew it. I just needed to convince myself the rest of the five percent. But it didn’t change the fact that while I was cleansing my home of all things Fletcher, I was crying enough to make my eyes look like puffy red beacons.
I carried the bag of hats to the front door, setting them next to the bag of miscellaneous stuff. If Fletcher wanted the hats, he could have them.
I texted him a picture of the bags, telling him they had to go. If he didn’t pick them up soon, I’d be giving them away.
He texted back.
Fletcher: You can’t get rid of our hats. I’ll pick them up when I come get my laundry. And then we’re going to talk. I wasn’t the only one with faults in our relationship.
Is he serious? Yeah, I definitely made the right decision.
I didn’t bother messaging him back.
Chapter Seven
Fletcher
“You really do look like you live in your mother’s basement. You look disgusting.”
I lifted my head from where I was resting it on my desk. “No, don’t stop there. Tell me how beautiful my eyes are.”
I sat in my duplex, trying to focus enough to compile all the data and information I’d pulled from Sullivan’s servers in the last twenty-four hours.
My undercover partner, West Turner, stood in the doorway to the bedroom I’d turned into an office. He was working a different angle undercover and could usually be found hanging out at The Bar. A local bar known for being the place that criminal or underworld deals were made.
“You need to stop sneaking into people’s houses. You’re going to get shot someday.”
He strode in and flopped down in the chair across from the desk. I still wasn’t sure if his tattoos were permanent or just part of his undercover disguise. He was working the back end of the investigation. Finding out specific delivery routes and fixers. Anything that was being hired out, he was looking into. And he was perfect for it. He looked like the guy who was going to probably kill you for no more than fifty bucks.
Basically, he was perfect for the role he was playing.
“You been up all night?”
I nodded. “I’ve almost got it.”
He rubbed a hand against his chin. “I hate to say it, but you’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”
“I’m sure your girlfriends love your complimentary attitude.” I shot back. I didn’t actually know if he had a girlfriend, which was a testament to his close-lipped approach to undercover work.
I reopened the computer and saw that the encrypted file had sent.
Now it was in the hands of our superiors, and they could decide how soon to act on that information. Logging hard evidence against a black-market broker was surprisingly difficult. But it would be over soon.
Only a few more weeks of undercover work, and then I could come clean to Saidy.
Oh, wait. Saidy had broken up with me. There would be no coming clean with Saidy.
She’d given up on us. She’d given up on me.
I’d given her no choice in the matter, though.
I guess that’s what I got when I tried to date the most amazing girl when I was neck deep in an undercover sting.
How did I
