Page 2 of Out Of Time

Remi Davis was a lot of things, but a morning person was not one of them. So, every Wednesday morning, when her alarm woke her up at 5 a.m. to clean the house of her one and only celebrity client, Max Miller, Anaheim goalie extraordinaire, she made sure to count her blessings that a guy likehimcontinued to usehersmall but humble cleaning service, Busy Bee Cleaners.

ItwasSan Clemente. No one cleaned their own homes there.

She pulled on a pair of black jeans and one of her “Busy Bee Cleaners” t-shirts and wondered if today would betheday she finally bumped into the infamous Max Miller.

She had been cleaning his house for four months now, and not once had she seen him, or any traces of him. His home was always spotless. The beds were unused, the floors were clean enough to eat from, and the bathrooms were pristine— not a single man-hair to be seen. Yet, she went through the motions. She mopped the already clean floors, scrubbed the already clean toilets, and washed the unused linens.

Max Miller was an enigma.

She pulled up to the famous hockey player’s beachfront mini-mansion, as she had every Wednesday for the last four months, with a burnt gas station coffee in one hand, and her cleaning cart in the other; it was time to start her day.

His house was extremely beautiful. Spanish-style exterior, with a completely renovated interior. Yet, since she had started cleaning for him, he had not once added his own personal touches to the home.

It was, for lack of a better word, sterile.

The walls had no pictures on them, no traces of family, friends, or travel. The rooms were like something out of a catalog, they had no real pulse. They were rooms filled with furniture for the sake of being rooms filled with furniture. Remi found her client, Max, to be the most unknowable person on the planet, and that was hard to believe, considering he was a professional hockey player.

Several times over the last four months, she had let her mind wonder about him after a long day of work, trying to find anything she could on the goalie. His social media presence was generic, likely run by an intern for his team. His wiki page was stock images and responses. Google searches on the guy were lacking any kind of real intel. He was a celebrity goalie, and yet he left no traces of human life outside of hockey.

Maybe he was an alien. She could get behind that theory.

She punched her personal code into the front door and when she opened it an automated voice echoed throughout the smart home, “Busy Bee Cleaners. Entry time: 6:05 a.m.”

She rolled her eyes at the overly feminine bot voice. “Yeah, yeah,” she said to no one, “I know I’m five minutes late. Fire me.”

Setting her coffee down on the white marble kitchen countertop, she headed to the master bedroom. She always stripped the beds first to get the wash started.

The palette of the home was mute colors. One room, a series of navy blues and beiges. She called this the GAP catalog room. Another room was a series of grays and whites, she called it the fancy prison cell room. The master bedroom was—well, it was sad. She couldn’t be sure Max even slept in his own bed when he was home. The indentions on the massive luxury couch in the living room said otherwise, which seemed odd.Maxseemed odd, but Remi wasn’t surprised by this. She didn’tknowhockey, but she knew enough to have heard that goalies are a bit bizarre, leaving Max to fit the stereotype perfectly from what she could gather on him just by cleaning his house week after week.

She loaded the sheets into the industrial-sized washer and headed to the kitchen to get to work. “Alexa, play a punk mix,” she said aloud to the smart home. The music started with a blast throughout the house, startling awake the massive body she had somehow failed to notice asleep on the couch.

“Oh, shit.” She covered her mouth with her hands, only to immediately move them up to cover her eyes after realizing Max Miller was standing in front of her wearing only his underwear.

Were his black boxer briefs extremely small, or was his body extremely big?

She would have to reassess that query later when her high-profile client wasn’t standing in front of her practically naked.

“Alexa, stop music,” she shouted, and the punk music stopped on demand. “I’ll turn around, so you can, you know, ummm…” she sputtered, turning quickly to face the refrigerator.

Max was fumbling about the living room behind her. She heard the AC kick on. She heard the freezer drop fresh ice, and then refill with water. She heard her heart hammering in her chest and her blood pumping through her veins. This was bad. This was awful. This wasnothow she expected it to go the first time she met this man.

After waiting what seemed like an eternity for him to give her a sign that the coast was clear to turn back around, she cleared her throat, and he gave her nothing in return. Slowly, she removed her hands from her eyes and turned back to face him. Only, he was gone—the throw blanket folded neatly on the couch.

No trace of Max Miller to be found.

“A fucking enigma,” she said under her breath as she got back to cleaning the kitchen.

Since when did the cleaning company come on Wednesdays? Max thought she came on Thursdays, but no, it couldn’t be Thursdays, because he was here last Thursday, and she hadn’t shown up then. Maybe she came whenever she wanted? She blasted her music like she owned the place. The craziest thing in all of this was that Max didn’t even know his housecouldplay music like that; he didn’t even know the walls had a built-in sound system.

Somehow, he had fallen asleep, alone in his house, and woke up to a stranger treating it likeherhome. Did she not see him asleep on the couch? He was a massive, red-headed, grizzly bear of a man, surely she had seen him.

Max moved about the master bedroom fitfully, throwing on clothes. He slipped his feet into a pair of black Sk8-Hi Vans and bent to cuff his dark Levi’s jeans. Standing quickly, he began a mad dash to the garage in an effort to avoid the housekeeper altogether—that was easier than talking to her. Shehadjust seen him practically naked; he could bet on his life that she didn'twant to talk to him after that. His heart hammered erratically as he felt panic come on strong.

Reaching for the bedroom doorknob, he tripped over something on the floor he hadn't seen. Before he could catch himself, he fell into the bedside table. The heavy clay lamp hit the floor and shattered, the sound of it echoing throughout the house.

“Fuck,” he said, gripping onto the wall to try and center himself as he regained his balance. His eyes, glued to the shattered lamp, were still struggling to focus with the sudden loss of light in the room.

The bedroom door clicked open, and there she was, his housekeeper. Her face was panicked, her voice shaky with worry.

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