Grayson Read Free

keypad on the side.
    “You try.” He nodded in my direction and I pulled out the paper and typed in the code.
    A question popped up: How old are you?
    I typed in ‘twenty-four’ and rolled my eyes in his direction as he surveyed the screen. His smile broadened, showing straight white teeth.
    “Knew I’d get it out of you one way or another. Now the system will be set to that answer.” He chuckled, hit a few more buttons, and pushed the door open.
    I laughed lightly, tossing out a sarcastic, “You are too clever.”
    “Yes, I am.” He nodded seriously, his gaze an inflexible blue beam. “And I always get what I want.”
    An uncomfortable tingle crept down my back. I was about to respond when I stepped into the house and my breath stuck in my lungs. I stood rooted by the door, letting my brain catch up to what my eyes were reporting. What the fuck?
    The room was massive, yet there wasn’t an area unencumbered. Stacks of books and furniture piled up to my elbow and strangled the space of the room. There were dusty barrels and crates, furniture piled on top of furniture, ornate vases, sculptures, paintings—you name it, it was in this room. There was likely no room left for the proverbial kitchen sink. I felt as if I’d just stepped into an episode of Hoarders . This house would definitely be a main feature.
    “Wow. Just…wow.”
    Charles scanned the room and sighed, shaking his head.
    “Yeah, it’s a hot mess,” he noted. “It just got worse over time. I haven’t been here in months. I’ve never known where to start, so I’ve done nothing.”
    I followed him as he wove us through a tight maze of books, trying not to knock over the haphazard piles. A musky smell invaded my nose as we got further into the room and I trampled a sneeze. I could now see a full wall of floor-to-ceiling old fashioned casement windows. I couldn’t help thinking how gloriously the light would dance in this room if the glass wasn't so filthy. We emerged into an area of wooden crates and Charles turned to me, looking concerned.
    “I hope you still want the job.”
    I paused for a moment, thought about the rent money that was due, and nodded.
    He beamed. “Great! Remember, you can take as much time as you want. A lot of this stuff needs to be thrown out. Anything you think is worthwhile, we can keep.”
    I looked around the room again, my gaze alighting on large pieces of art leaning against one wall.
    “I don’t mind cleaning things out. I just don’t want to throw away anything that might be valuable.”
    “Don’t worry,” He started walking again and I followed. I’ve already had an art dealer take the valuable pieces and a book collector has gone through the tomes. What’s left is mostly junk. You can just organize things. Most of the books are old and have suffered damage. They can be thrown out.”
    I looked at a large stack, noting some classics. Moby Dick , Lord of the Flies , Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and there was even a collection of Robert Frost’s poetry.
    “Someone really likes to read.”
    “My father,” Charles said sadly. “He used to collect books.”
    “Oh,” was all I could say, feeling bad for sparking the memory of his father. I remembered Anna saying in her text that his parents had died in a car accident. It must have been tough losing them. Perhaps that’s why he had a hard time cleaning out the home he’d grown up in. It was unfair of me to have judged him as a spoiled rich kid when I knew so little about him or what he must have endured.
    We moved into an adjacent room and it was more of the same. However, in here the walls were in worse condition with large holes eating through the plaster. One area looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it and released some aggression. My nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of mildew. The stuffiness was starting to become oppressive, and I removed my jacket, folding it over my arm.
    “Some things are quite large…” Charles’ words