Selling Murder House

Chapter 5 (Continued)

I didn't love the idea hitting up the scene of a tragic death and trying to spin it into a sales opportunity, not even in my current state of desperation. As I made my way up the walk, I felt slimy and sick with myself. I tried to tell myself that I was helping, that I was offering a service to a grief-stricken family, helping them get this memory out of their lives for good. Or I'm poaching a million dollar mansion off a vulnerable family to try and fix my own stupid problems, I thought.

I rang the doorbell with a sweaty finger and took a deep breath. After a minute, when no one answered, I listened for movement inside. I could hear someone, and I knew for a fact there was at least one person up and moving in that house, I had seen it in the open windows. I thought about turning around, taking this as my subtle hint to just drop it, or a sign from above that I was being a major asshole, but instead, my resolve hardened. I knocked, three quick, hard times, on the solid wood door.

I jumped when the door swung open and I immediately forgot everything I was going to say. Questions flooded my brain, things I hadn't given myself time to consider: do I offer my condolences, or just pretend I don't know about the murder? Or will pretending I don't know about the murder seem obviously insincere, and make me look like an even bigger asshole than I am? There wasn't time to think, all I could do was straighten my posture and try not to look like I was about to throw up.

"What d'you want?" a man asked, his tone cold.

He was tall and thin, with chin-length brown hair, bushy, unruly eyebrows and a lot of uneven stubble covering his face. He wore a dirty white t-shirt and jeans and held a rag in his left hand. My first thought was that he must be the gardener or a repairman or a contractor, and I nearly apologized, turned around and left. Then I looked at his eyes and saw just how young he was, behind all the scruff and eyebags. He was probably about my age, maybe a couple years older. It gave me pause.

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you," I said. "My name is Mary Lately, I'm a real estate agent with the Larson Group. Is this a good time to talk?"

This felt all wrong already. I wanted to give him a chance to tell me to fuck off. It felt like I owed him that at least.

"No, not really," the man said, and then laughed, a dry, tired sound.

I returned the laugh, nervously, and started to say goodbye, when he surprised me by speaking.

"So you want to sell my house?" he asked.

"Well, yeah. Your house, the neighbor's house. Any house, really," I said.

I don't know why I was so honest, maybe because I was at the end of my rope or maybe because this guy seemed like a peer to me, like someone I'd meet in a dive bar at last call. He didn't look like someone who would own a home in Saddlebrook. In fact, he didn't look like someone who would ever set foot in this neighborhood. He was scruffy and tired and maybe a little drunk.

He laughed, and it sounded a little more real this time.

"I'm Paul Madsen," he said. "Look, I'd love to help but my family would kill me if I sold this house."

He didn't seem to notice the dark irony of what he'd just said, and I tried not to let my face betray me. Behind him, I could see a little ways into the house, where a bucket and mop sat in the center of the foyer. It dawned on me that he was cleaning the house. My gaze shifted to the rag in his hand, which, I now realized, had a definitively pink tinge to it. My heart dropped into my stomach -- was he cleaning the crime scene?

"Listen, I gotta get back in there," he said.

I met his gaze. His eyes were dark blue and puffy and empty. I think they were the saddest eyes I'd ever seen.

"Are you --" I started, then rephrased. "Is that--?"

He nodded, then tossed the pink rag out of sight, as if only just realizing what it was he was holding.

"You know, we could help you," I said, emboldened. This time, I wasn't trying to make a sale. I really just wanted to help. "We could get a professional cleaning crew in here, fix the place up, put it on the market. We could find you a brand new place . . ."

"Thanks," he said, but he was receding into the house. "But I'm not interested."

He closed the door. Inside, I could hear the sloshing sound of a mop dipping into dirty water. I exhaled. I felt an incredible fatigue wash over me. I cursed myself again for not having business cards prepared. I swung my purse around and dug through it, looking for any stitch of paper I could use. I found an old shopping list that would have to do, and a purple gel pen.

MARY LATELY, I scribbled on the back of the sheet. I added my cell phone number and my Larson Group email address, then I slipped the piece of paper through the gilded mail slot. I straightened up, tore off my heels, and walked home barefoot.

***

Later, back at my apartment, I couldn't get that pink washrag out of my head. What were the chances that, on the day I was canvassing Saddlebrook, Paul Madsen would be cleaning up the blood of his newly-massacred family? I wasn't particularly squeamish about blood, in fact, I enjoyed giving blood and watching gory horror films, but there was something so subtly sickening about that rag, just lightly tinged with human blood.

It was only half past eight, but I tried my best to fall asleep early. I wanted to wipe my hands of this dreadful, hopeless day, but my mind was reeling with anxious energy. At that very moment, I thought, Paul Madsen is scrubbing carpets that will never truly be clean, trying not to look too hard at hard bits of white rubble that had gotten its way under the bed...

I couldn't be alone, not with these sick thoughts running through my brain, getting more and more graphic by the second.

I texted Sofia, feeling extremely awkward and uncharacteristically forward, but I was desperate. I wanted to get away from these thoughts, this apartment. I wanted to put some distance between myself and Saddlebrook.

Me: Hey Sofia, you busy? Feel like grabbing a drink?

Sofia: Sorry lady, home with the kids while Jeff works late

My heart sank. Then Sofia texted again.

Sofia: Wanna come over? I have tequila ;)

I let out a sigh of relief. I got out of bed, put on my nicest pair of yoga pants and called an Uber.