CLEAR WATERS / Chapter 1 / 10

Chapter 1 - The Water’s SurfaceMy name is Michael. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I clean pools for people who live behind gates, hedges, cameras, and money. In those wealthy suburban neighborhoods, men like me are almost invisible. We arrive early, work quietly, and disappear before the homeowners finish their morning coffee.

At seven o’clock on a cool Wednesday morning, I pulled up to the Whitmore estate in my battered work truck, just as I had every week for the past six months. Same truck. Same equipment. Same side gate code. Same backyard that looked like it belonged on the cover of an architectural digest.

The pool was kidney-shaped, saltwater, heated, and surrounded by imported stone pavers. It was one of the easiest stops on my route for Peninsula Pool Service. No kids leaving plastic toys in the water, no loud weekend parties, no stray leaves floating near the skimmer basket. Just clean, quiet water that needed routine maintenance to stay crystal clear.

I had been doing pool work for four years. I started as an assistant, learned the chemical balances, got my certifications, and went independent last year. The work was simple if you knew what you were doing: test the water, balance the pH, skim the surface, check the pump pressure. Forty minutes, in and out. That was how I liked it.

Clara Whitmore had always been polite but distant. She was thirty-two, stunningly beautiful, but carried an air of quiet restraint. Sometimes I’d see her through the glass patio doors, lifting a hand in a brief wave. I’d nod back, mind my business, and finish my job.

Until that morning.

I was kneeling by the edge, skimming the deep end with my net, when I heard the patio door slide open. Clara stood barefoot on the stone tiles, wearing a plush white robe. Her long blonde hair was damp, free of makeup, and her expression was strangely bare.

"Morning," I said, pausing my work.

"Morning, Michael," she replied, her voice soft. "Sorry to bother you. Is the pool pump running louder than usual today?"

"I checked it," I said, crouching by the skimmer. "Pressure is fine. It’s running smoothly."

Instead of turning back inside, she walked slowly toward the water’s edge. She untied the silk belt of her robe and let it drop onto a lounge chair, revealing a simple patterned bikini. She stepped onto the top step of the pool, the cool water swirling around her ankles.

Outside the perimeter fence, an elderly neighbor walking a dog paused, peeking through the lattice hedges. Clara caught the woman’s gaze, her expression flattening into cold indifference. Then she looked back down at me, her brown eyes intense and unwavering.