The Perfect Crime

Chapter 26: TRAITOR

The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.
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Long after the police had left his childhood home, Archer remained behind, roaming the aureate halls of the house. He was looking for Abigail or, at least, a clue that would help him find out where Abigail was. He did not believe what the butler had said about Abigail staying at a friend's house because his mom had no friends —at least not the kind that would let her spend the night. Abigail had ostracized herself from her friends. She spent most of her day at home or at some charity. There were only a few times when she was called to the wine company for an important board meeting. She never socialized; she was what some would call a certified introvert. So where had she gone?

Archer searched the entire house, literally tearing rooms apart and found nothing —no Abigail and no clue of her whereabouts. Now, he leaned against the wall in his mother's room, dreading what he would find if he searched through his mother's more intimate things.

Instead he stared out at Hyde Park. From the window in his mother's room, he could see the beautiful green rolling hills that made Hyde park so damn expensive. The view would be breathtaking if he was the kind of person to be excited about such things. He imagined the residents of this glitzy neighborhood living their lives with pomp and splendor, so carefree, so oblivious to the crimes going on in this very house.

Archer turned and faced his mother's room, his eyes, immediately, falling on the clothes that lay disorganized on her even more disorganized bed. He picked up the clothes and a scent wafted off of them. It was a mixture of sweat, perfume and something else —something distinctly masculine. He stilled, the clothes falling soundlessly on the bed.

The live-in janitor —a stick thin man called Hank or was it Henry? It didn't really matter because both those names were more suited for a mechanic than a janitor— walked into the room. He stopped on seeing Archer in the room, placing his cleaning supplies by the door.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know you were still here. I just came in to clean. I can come back later."

"Wait a minute. Which friend is my mom going to be staying with?" Archer said while picking lint from his shirt.

The janitor blinked twice. "Pardon?"

"Downstairs, you told the police that my mother is staying at a friend's house. Do you happen to know which friend she is staying with?"

The janitor's eyes darted around anxiously. He was so obviously nervous that Archer felt pity for him. "Like I said downstairs. She didn't tell me where exactly she was going. All she told me was that she would be staying at a friend's place for a few days."

Archer arched a brow. "Is that so? Alright then." He paused. "Is it okay if I help you clean?"

The janitor's eyes widened and Archer felt a brief stab of annoyance. Hank or Henry or whatever the fuck his name was probably thought that he was one of those rich snobs who didn't know how to do any housework.

"You don't have to do that. I can manage." The janitor said, picking up his equipment.

Archer was so persistent that he picked up the mop. "Please. I insist. I want to help." He said, waving the mop in his hands.

The janitor shrugged, completely oblivious to Archer's plan. Archer was using cleaning as an excuse to get close to the janitor. Archer wanted — no needed— to smell him; he had a hunch. And when he did so, all his suspicions were confirmed. Now all he needed to do was confront the janitor with the truth and see if he cracked under pressure.

"You are sleeping with my mother, aren't you?" Archer said, placing the mop against the wall.

The janitor blinked many times —a sure sign of his anxiety. "Pardon?"