Free The Children by Ann Leary Page B

label of his beer bottle, enjoying our suspense.
    â€œWell? What happened? Is she okay?” we all asked at once.
    Everett just sipped his beer. “Mr. Clean is back,” he said finally.
    â€œNO!” Joan cried out.
    â€œAre you joking?” Spin said. “So he—he hit Mildred’s place?”
    â€œYup!” Everett said. “She just got back yesterday from Nantucket. I guess she was visiting her grandkids for a few days.” He took another swig of his beer.
    â€œOh no, poor Mildred,” Joan said. “I saw a patrol car pulling out of her driveway this morning. I thought they were just checking on the place while she was away. Are they sure it’s Mr. Clean?”
    â€œPretty sure,” Everett said. “Everybody was talking about it at the post office. I stopped in to check on her on my way home. He didn’t take anything. Her niece is there with her now.”
    â€œDid he, you know—clean?” Joan asked, shuddering.
    â€œYup,” Everett said. “Same old thing. Looks like he stayed a night or two. Washed the bed linens. Made the bed. Organized her fridge. And, get this—he changed her cat’s litter box.”
    Joan and I screamed. Everett and Spin laughed.
    â€œWhat’s so funny? Who’s this Mr. Clean ?” Laurel asked.
    We have very little crime in this town. Some of the homes surrounding the lake are vacant during the winter months, and very occasionally there are break-ins. Usually, it’s kids from neighboring towns looking for drug money. But during the summer of 2014, the summer before Laurel arrived, there was a series of home invasions here on the lake. They all seemed to be committed by one individual. The police had found the same set of fingerprints at each home, but none of the prints was identifiable. The person had no criminal record. The thing that had everybody in a state of borderline hysteria was the fact that the intruder never took anything. He just hung out in the house, and he always tidied up in some way before he left.
    The whole town was horrified by what he did, by what investigators called his “pattern of criminal behavior.” He never stole anything except for small amounts of food, but he always left the place cleaner than he had found it. There was usually a clean set of sheets on one of the beds, leading investigators to conclude that he’d slept there. He seemed to know who came up on weekends, and he’d break into their homes during the week. He’d watch TV, read, or at least look at books—the owners could tell because he’d usually reorganize their bookshelves. At one house last summer, he used a treadmill and logged in over ten miles. At another, he played with the children’s PlayStation. Dishes in the sink? He’d wash them. Laundry in the dryer? He’d fold it. At one home, he scrubbed the bathtub grout. At another, he managed to remove an old red wine stain from the carpet.
    There was a lot of commentary in the Harwich Times about the intruder last year. They allow anonymous comments on the newspaper’s Web site, so people say stuff they wouldn’t say in person. For example, this, from last summer, when he first got his nickname:
    JRD: I’d like to see him try breaking into my house, he’ll be polishing the business end of my Ruger with his tonsils
    LEXIE: Is that my Ruger in your mouth, or are you just glad to see me, Mr. Clean?
    JRD: LOL! Mr. Clean!!!!!!!
    WINSOME: Glad I live in Westfield, not Harwich
    JAMESP: There’s like zero crime in Harwich, I grew up there
    BILLFEN: JAMESP, what the hell are you talking about, we have crimes here. This newspaper won’t report most of them
    KELLYQ: Mr. Clean!
    FT: They report crimes in this paper.
    BILLFEN: Rarely. Look who buys the ads. Real estate brokers. They don’t want it to look like anything bad happens in this town.
    JAMESP: Um, BILLFEN, try getting out of your little town and