Dirty Work, Dirty Secrets 

Wednesday 6:55 p.m. – Jessica’s House

The housekeeper was still shaking when the officers walked in. Jessica Wright lay on the bathroom floor, flat on her back. A GLP-1 injector pen rested on the counter.

“Overdose,” Officer One said, crouching to examine the body.

Officer Two shook his head. “Not clean. She’s dressed. Bruising here, here, here.” He pointed along her arms and ribs. “Doesn’t fit. Pen’s empty too.”

The bathroom looked staged for a feed. A camera light glowed against the sink. Supplements lined and on display. A cue card lay near the tub, bullet points scrawled across it. Above the mirror, a poster of Jessica: Live Healthy, Live Long. showing off her brand Wrightbody and her social media influence.

Down the hall, her office was torn apart. Drawers yanked, papers scattered. On the desk, a hurried scrawl: Need to handle partner / blackmail.

“Looks like robbery, or someone desperate,” Officer Two said.

The Lawyer leaned in the doorway, tie crooked, phone clutched in his hand.

Officer One gave him a sideways look.

The Lawyer shifted. “I came to talk about the IPO transition,” he said, voice tight, almost stuttering.

“How long have you been here?” Officer Two asked.

“She worked odd hours,” the Lawyer babbled as he was texting.

“Hold up. We’d like a word,” Officer One called.

“Of course,” the Lawyer muttered, already edging out, phone glowing in front of him.

“Sir, check this out,” Officer Two said. “Several emails went out around four-thirty. Multiple recipients. Content unknown.”

“Let’s hold off on an announcement until late tomorrow,” Officer One said. “Wait for tox to come back, let's talk to the lawyer. She’s a public figure. One leak could blow back on this.”

“And the partner?”

“Gone. No trace.”

The housekeeper crossed herself. When the officers looked up, the Lawyer was gone.

Thursday 7:00 a.m. – WrightBody Warehouse Office

I unlocked the office and stepped into hell. First one in, as always. Papers buried under cups and takeout boxes. The air smelled like a movie theater after closing — popcorn, pizza, stale coffee, sweat.

An open-concept office, they called it. Built for twenty, crammed with eighty. The only thing they collaborated on was keeping it filthy.

My supply closet was in the only bathroom, which says enough about this place. On the way, I passed the glass conference room — still barricaded by developers and IT. Notes plastered on the glass, a some team members were asleep on beanbags, others scribbling on whiteboards. I didn’t need to guess the smell. I have to deal with it later.

I sighed. Another dirty day. This is suppose to be a health company, not a landfill.

I opened the bathroom door. More business got done here than in the office — and none of it involved flushing.

I snapped a few photos of the mess and slid my phone into my pocket, pulled on gloves, and started my routine. Before I left, I picked up a crumpled chip bag stuck behind the door.

Thursday 9:05 a.m. – Smoking Patch by Dumpsters

The breakroom was always the worst. Dirty dishes stacked high, coffee pot burnt dry, a smoothie cup collapsed in a pink puddle. Nobody ever wiped the microwave.

Above it, Jessica’s grin beamed down: Eat Clean. Live Wright. With all the junk food, that was a joke.

After my first pass, I dragged a heavy bag of trash outside.

“Damn.” I tripped on a chip bag stuck to my shoe. The trash bag tore, spilling noodles and wrappers across the asphalt.

That’s when the Chief Financial Officer — the CFO — screeched into the lot, crooked as ever. His phone pinged before he slammed the door. He froze, swearing at the screen.

“Sent yesterday at four-thirty. Just lands now. Servers dragging. Tech guys can’t fix anything.”

The Chief Operations Officer — the COO — was already at the smoking patch, cigarette shaking in his hand. He waved the CFO over. “Hey, I need to tell you something—”

But the CFO cut him off, shoving the phone in his face. “It’s from Jessica. Had to sell to those bastards at JJ’s. No IPO. Review P&L. Move cash offshore. Blackmail. Clean this up before the new owners take control.”

The COO flicked ash. Whatever he’d meant to say died. “We must handle this quietly.”

“She says we’ve got to move fast — JJ’s takes over at five.”

The two of them rushed back toward the office, still trading curses, stepping over my mess without a glance.

I scooped the trash, tied the knot tight, and heaved it into the dumpster. Thumbed a quick line into my phone. They covered their messes. I was already cleaning up mine.

Thursday 10:15 a.m. – Gender Neutral Bathroom

I was bent over the cart, restocking spray bottles. The supply closet was my only private workspace — unfortunately it was inside the office’s only bathroom. Three years of overhearing everything: peeing, arguing, groping. sexual acts. Nobody flushes. Nobody hits the bin.

The closet door was cracked just enough to see the sink. Cleaning in Progress sign hung outside.

The bathroom door banged open. The COO swept the Chief People Officer — the CPO — inside, arm tight around her waist, the two of them huddled close.

Rude. Did they not see the sign? Nobody ever does, not around here.

“I need to tell you something about the GLP-1 injectables and the FDA—” he said.

She leaned in close, ready for something else. I could tell she wasn’t listening. He pushed her back gently.

The door slammed again. The CFO shoved in, frantic.

“Where’s Jessica? The money’s gone. I’ve been calling — everything going to voicemail. I went to move assets like she demanded. Empty. Drained.”

“What?” the COO and CPO said together.

“All I’m getting is delayed emails.” He fumbled his tablet and read aloud: Get rid of 35 people by tomorrow, 5 p.m. We can’t pay out. Clean this mess. I won’t be in. – Jessica.

The CPO stiffened. “Mine told me to prep the layoff plan. End of day.”

I sat in the closet, stuck. Funny. The company was broke, but the cleaning closet was always stocked.

The COO muttered low, meant only for himself: “Should’ve dealt with the FDA inquiry Tuesday. Maybe layoffs could cover it if R&D takes the hit.”

Then louder he said: “Meet in forty-five. You compile the list. You check finances. Maybe Jessica will call.”

They all nodded, relieved just to have a plan.

The CPO washed her hands, tossed the towel, missed the bin. Phone buzzed as she pushed the door. Screen tilted. I caught the message: Jessica is dead. On my way to the office, baby. Our relationship may be compromised. Don’t tell anyone.

When the door swung shut, I finally left the closet. Bent for the towel — and spotted it. A chip bag under the stall. Didn’t I just clean in here? Same bag, different day.

Above the mirror, Jessica’s poster beamed: Clean Living Starts Here. An ironic joke, in the dirtiest room of the office.

Thursday 10:29 a.m. – Glass Box Conference Room

The developers — plus Milo from IT — had been barricaded in the glass conference room for two weeks. Everyone could see them through sticky notes plastered across the glass. A dorm-room fishbowl. Every day I dreaded scraping it back into shape.

Armed with Lysol, I opened the door and the smell hit: pizza boxes, cans, sweat ground into beanbags.

The Lead Developer’s laptop pinged. “This was from yesterday. Milo, servers still dragging?”

Milo just nodded

The Lead read the email: People use WrightBody to lose pounds, not add them. Fix the glitch. If the software isn’t working by Friday, you’re fired.

“Bluetooth scale still adding pounds?”

“Yeah,” carrot-top groaned. “Pound and a half.”

“Anybody know how to patch this?” Groans all around.

I wove through what I called “dead bodies,” spraying, scooping cans, mopping sticky patches. A chip bag dragged with my mop. Of course. Can’t anyone throw these away?

Milo pulled the Lead into the hall. “There’s a bigger problem. We think there’s been a data breach. User and company data. Might’ve leaked during testing.”

The Lead snapped. “No way. That’s your job.”

“Nobody outside knows yet,” Milo said. “But it looks like someone on your side poked the system. Hold off testing until I confirm.”

“That puts us behind,” the Lead hissed.

“Behind, or in court. Pick one,” Milo shot back.

When they returned, I was leaving. A developer hurled a drink at the wall. The Lead brushed it off. “This place stinks, what a Junk trap. It's Never cleaned properly.”

The others laughed as they piling wrappers back into the corner.

I kept my face blank, mopped like I hadn’t heard them. before the door swung shut, Snapped a photo of their mess. Two hours a day wasted in this room just to keep it from collapsing.

Inside, they were back to bickering. Comment forgotten. And so was I.

Thursday 11:34 a.m. – Old Bench by the Dumpsters

I hauled my second load of trash, dropped the bags with a grunt, and slid onto the old bench near the dumpsters. My break spot. The other side was for smoking — nasty habit I didn’t clean up after.

Most days I let it roll off, but the devs’ cracks about my cleaning this morning stung more than I wanted to admit.

I pulled out my phone and typed.

Across the lot, voices carried: COO, CPO, then the CFO, finally the Assistant clutching a folder. I couldn’t see much, but I heard every word.

The CFO paced. “We’ve got to figure out the money and finalize the list. If Jessica’s emails correct, JJ’s takes the keys at five.”

“How much is left?” the CPO asked.

“Still running numbers. Should know by lunch.”

“We’ve got an initial list. Headcount reduction will look like compliance,” she said.

The COO stood off to the side, chain-smoking, relieved.

“We need to do this quietly,” the CFO muttered.

The Assistant squeezed her folder. “I already copied the list this morning. Printer jammed. Someone might’ve seen…” Pale. Nobody else noticed. I did. That list was probably all over by now.

“How do we fix this?” the CFO snapped.

“It’s almost noon,” the CPO said. “Order lunch. Nobody protests layoffs with food in hand.”

They bickered, then settled on BBQ.

On my side, I winced. Company lunch meant war-zone cleanup.

The CPO kept checking her phone, probably still waiting to hear from the Lawyer.

A text buzzed on mine. I fired off a reply, tied a bag, and headed back inside. Not before I saw a chip bag tumble across the lot. Not chasing it.

Thursday 12:00 p.m. – Breakroom

The Big Pig BBQ truck pulled up, smoke curling across the lot. A full spread. The office stampeded outside to eat in the sun.

I was relieved. Lunch outside meant no breakroom disaster. I even grabbed a plate before being pulled back for supplies.

The CFO, COO, CPO, and the Assistant stayed in. Each carried a plate, retreating to the breakroom.

I slipped in, pulled a box off the shelf, staying quiet.

The CFO set down his fork. “Less than a month left. Payroll Friday, then nothing. Petty cash went into BBQ.”

The CPO started flipping through names.

“Mike from accounting. severance too expensive. Cheaper to fire for cause instead.”

“Amy. Nobody likes her.” Gone.

Someone said developers, but that was shot down. “They’re locked in the glass room. We’d have to break the glass.”

Silence. Maybe deep down they knew Jessica was gone. Maybe they just didn’t want to say it out loud.

The CPO kept glancing at her phone. I could tell she wanted to spill but held back.

I slipped out. Outside, gossip buzzed: layoffs, broken software, something was off and they knew it.

My relief faded when I saw the lot. Plates skittering, cups tipped in puddles, grease stains spreading. The truck pulled away without a thought for the mess left behind.

Thursday 1:23 p.m. – Parking Lot

I don’t know what’s worse, cleaning the office or the lot. I don’t know why I thought I’d escape it. I was hauling bags from lunch, and picking up trash.

The CPO slipped out, phone in hand. Staff shuffling back inside, slow from food and sugar.

A car swung in, crooked by the dumpsters. The Lawyer jumped out, jacket off, tie loose, rattled.

“Did you tell anyone about Jessica?”

She shook her head. “I want to hear it from you. What happened?”

“She’s dead. I tried to make it look like an overdose, maybe a robbery. They suspect me. You can’t say a word until I get control of this.”

He leaned in. “Jessica sent emails before she died. Could incriminate us both. And the affair.”

I froze. Did he kill her? My stomach turned.

The CPO’s jaw tightened. She gripped his wrist. “Then fix it. I’m not going down with you.”

He nodded.

“Clear your office. Delete everything. You fix it.”

She shoved him back to the car. He hesitated. “You should get out of town.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You fix this.”

Tires screeched as he sped off.

Her phone buzzed. She answered: “Where are you? … Good. You’re coming in? Jessica isn’t here. As her partner you need to take care of this. See you in an hour. I’m not going down for your mess.” She hung up hard.

On the far side of the dumpsters, I didn’t look up. I’d heard enough.

Too many secrets. Company broke. Jessica dead. Layoffs. Blackmail. Maybe murder.

A chip bag tumbled across the lot. could it be the same one?

Thursday 2:00 p.m. – Office Floor Cleanup Circuit

Back inside, I felt numb. The office mess seemed small compared to everything else. Time for my second pass: the snack mess.

I bent to grab a plate just as Amy barreled past with a soda. It tipped, splashed across the floor — and all over me.

“Can someone call the janitor? There’s a spill.” She didn’t stop.

I looked her dead in the eye. “Deal with it.” Then stormed to the supply closet..

In the bathroom, I wiped at the soda, saw the stain spreading across my shirt. Hauled the towels to the sink.

“I’m not the janitor,” I said my eyes stinging, and out loud, to no one.

No wonder Amy’s on the list. After tomorrow, she’ll wish she was picking up after me.

Was there a chip bag in the stall again. I'm so done.

Thursday 3:44 p.m. – Bathroom Redux

The CFO, CPO, and Assistant crammed into the bathroom, layoff list on the counter.

“With these numbers,” the CFO snapped, “we need four more. One of us has to go.”

The Assistant panicked. “What about me? I have no benefits. Put me down.”

The COO stumbled in, pale, sweating. “Two from R&D… maybe How about the Cleaner. the place is always a mess anyway—”

Before he finished, the CPO blurted: “Jessica’s dead.”

The room erupted. Shouts, panic. The folder slipped into the sink.

Just then the Partner shoved in, wrecked. swearing he wasn’t the blackmailer. Swore Jessica’s death was a shock to him. Said she’d sold the company because of blackmail. Her weight loss story was a fake — photoshopped fat photos and body sculpting surgery.

At first she blamed me. Then she found out it was the Lawyer. And someone inside WrightBody.

The CFO muttered: “We’re broke. Maybe the Lawyer stole what was left.”

The Partner sagged. Our offshore accounts gone. Looking at the CPO who now looked guilty by default.

His phone buzzed. Another delayed message from Jessica: Lawyer is the blackmailer — and so is the CPO. Watch your back.

He turned on her. “You promised me you’d fix this. What did you promise him? And him?” pointing to the COO

The others stared. Their silence said enough.

The CPO flushed, bolted out the door. The Assistant blurted, “She was with me too!”

The CFO sneered. “Fine. Add her name to the list.”

From the closet, I was stunned. And insulted. Cutting me? This place is always a mess? No kidding.

I thumbed a line into my phone, that's it I'm done.

Thursday 4:45 p.m. – Breakroom

Voices still echoed from the bathroom.

I pushed my cart aside. Closed the closet door behind me.

Three years being invisible. A few swipes across my phone, final message sent. Slipped it away with a smirk. Let's see who is invisible now.

Phones buzzed. Gasps spread. Panic detonated.

The office imploded — layoffs leaked, Jessica’s death shouted across the floor, accusations ricocheting.

Thursday 5:00 p.m. – Finale

Nobody noticed me slip out the side door as two men in sharp suits walked in to claim the wreck.

Police, Owner? who cares.

Something crashed in the break room and spilled all over the floor

“Where’s the cleaner… Olivia?” someone muttered.

“Forget her. Look at this mess.”

The wall TV was blasting a TMZ EXCLUSIVE: WrightBody Implodes — Founder Dead, Possible Murder, Injectables Under Fire from the FDA, Office Romance Tied to Blackmail, Mass Layoffs Underway.

I sat in my car listening to the TMZ report on my phone, just as a chip bag landed on my windshield.