“Worry me? You’re cleaning with a broken leg!”
She limped past me into the living room, moving like every step cost her something. That’s when I noticed the house: immaculate. Floors gleaming, vacuum still in the hallway, mop bucket by the stairs. The smell of cleaning chemicals hung in the air.
“Why are you doing this?” I demanded.
She lowered herself onto the couch. “Dennis’s daughter is coming tonight,” she murmured. “He wants the house perfect.”
“Are you kidding me? With a broken leg?”
“He said it’s just snow. I can use the shovel to support myself,” she whispered.
I felt my pulse in my ears. “Where is he?”
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