The Walkers were hiding. Oksana tried not to take it personally as she hauled her vacuum down a narrow staircase to their finished basement. Clients liked to pretend she was invisible. They avoided eye contact with the jowly blonde whom no one would believe was only forty if they’d asked, treating her like a product that disappeared toilet rings and eliminated carpet stains rather than a person who scrubbed and wiped and hauled, who’d escaped a military invasion and mortar shells to start her own American business. Life’s unfairness was less embarrassing that way, she figured.
Celebrities were frequently the worst, often refusing to remain in the same room once she appeared. But the Walkers had always been different, acknowledging her biweekly presence with warm smiles and casual inquiries about her health and family. Oksana knew that they didn’t expect her to answer too honestly or at any length. Even so, the effort at polite conversation had been something, providing tidbits with which to regale starstruck friends or, once or twice, sell to gossip rags. Melissa Walker Bathes Skin in Snail Mucus. Nate Walker’s New Gig: Stay-at-Home Dad.
Oksana stepped off the wooden stair onto the white marble floor. She carted the unwieldy vacuum another several feet to a patchwork cowhide carpet, which was surprisingly easy to care for despite its undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. A single pass with the Dyson typically did the trick, as long as there weren’t any real stains.
The vacuum’s various attachments clattered as she set it down. Oksana unwound the cord and began dragging it toward the socket tucked beneath the open staircase, wondering which floor the family was holing up on. It was the pandemic making everyone extra cautious, she told herself. If the Walkers had suspected her of leaking that headline about Mr. Walker’s lack of employment, they would have fired her already.
Then again, maybe not. The pandemic had made people desperate to retain their small circle of previously vetted people, even when it became clear those relationships weren’t working out. Maybe she’d simply been grandfathered in.
Oksana crouched to the outlet. A merlot-colored mark shone on the tile in front of her. She dropped the vacuum cord and crawled toward it, pulling a wet wipe packet from her back pocket. Red wine stained everything, even seemingly hard surfaces, and the basement floor was honed, making it more porous than the shiny stone version. To prevent a permanent mark, she’d probably have needed to treat the marble yesterday.
Still, maybe there was a chance.
As she reached the stain, Oksana saw that it had company. Red dots led a jagged path to the den. Somebody had gotten tipsy and then sloshed his or her way to the stairs, she decided. A damp tissue wouldn’t clean this mess. She’d need a paper towel at a minimum. The mop most likely.
Oksana straightened, pressing one hand to the floor and the other to her bad knee. She followed the spots to the open den door, muttering about the importance of holding one’s liquor. If there were spills on the carpet or, worse, vomit, she would need to rent a steam cleaner and give them a quote. And she wouldn’t be able to offer any guarantees. Red wine, puke, blood, and pet piss were the four horsemen in her business. Removing such fluids from carpet or fabric furniture was nearly impossible.
As she entered the den, she immediately noticed more splashes on the suede wallpaper behind Mr. Walker’s large, wooden desk. A scotch glass sat on the top with a ring of gold liquid in the bottom. She spied the bottle in a bin beside the door, trashed despite the liquor still inside. Scotch and wine. She’d cleaned up the family’s dishes long enough to know that Mr. Walker rarely drank alone, especially not hard liquor. He’d been entertaining. First time since the shutdown, probably. No wonder someone had gotten sloppy drunk.
Oksana approached the wallpaper. The largest spot had hardened into a crust, less like wine and more like ketchup. She scratched at it. It didn’t flake off, but particles slipped beneath her nail.
Oksana stepped back, considering the gunk on her finger. She heard the wet squish before registering the sensation beneath her shoes. The sides of her gray sneakers were coated in dark, brick-colored goo. She whirled around, looking for the source of this new stain.
On the floor, behind the desk, lay a near-headless body. Oksana couldn’t immediately tell whether she was looking at the figure’s front or back. The face was nearly gone. Brain, identifiable only by its whitish color amid all the red, had dribbled and dried over the places where the eyes and nose had been. The arms were splayed out as if the victim had fallen backward. A black handgun lay in his palm.
Most people would have screamed. However, most people hadn’t learned to sleep through shelling and wake at the rumble of tanks rolling past their home. They hadn’t grabbed blankets off beds to cover bodies or scrubbed blood from cobblestone hearths.
As there was nothing to save, calling the police could wait. Oksana reached for the garbage and then her phone. She withdrew her cell and clicked on the camera app. She stepped back until what was left of director Nate Walker fit in the frame. Then she placed her finger squarely over the screen and tapped its big red dot.