A Room to Rent

It's blazing hot here in Vegas, so when I driving back from my errands this afternoon and saw a women trudging down the street carrying three huge bags, I stopped the car and asked if she needed a ride anywhere.  "I need a room," she said with a desperate tone in her voice.  "Do you know of anyone in this neighborhood with a room to rent?"

I didn't.  But I couldn't very well let her stay on the street so I said she could come back to my house and we'd make some calls to find her somewhere to stay.  She was beautiful by anyone's standards, wearing a super revealing outfit and jumpy as all get-out.  "Thank you so much," she said, "I don't want to talk about my situation, but I really need a place to stay right now.
"There's a local women's shelter close by," I offered.  They always have rooms available and I could drop you off right now."
"No, no," she said distractedly.  "I don't want to talk about my situation.  I just need a place to stay."

So I brought her back to my home.  As we walked through the door, I let her know that she was welcome to stay for the day and could have any food in my kitchen and use of my phone.  But she wasn't listening.  Instead, she was slowly looking around my home with wide eyes.  Then said to me with great concern, "has someone been in here?"
"What do you mean?"
"It looks like you've been robbed."
"Oh no, I just have little kids and haven't cleaned the house since Friday.  It's always a little messy," I assured her. Sure, my house was a little untidy, but I didn't feel like it was anything out of the ordinary.  My guest didn't look convinced.  She slowly reached for my hand.
"Are you okay?" she asked me?  "Are you in trouble?"  Her eyes were filled with terror.
"No, really, I'm just a little messy.  My family is out of town this weekend and I've been doing projects so the place is a mess."
"Do you need to hire someone to help you clean?  I know someone..."
"No thanks," I laughed.  "It's just part of having kids."  My casual attitude didn't calm her.
She looked at a the dishes strewed around the kitchen and then blurted out, "I have to go.  Something is wrong about this place.  I can't stay."
And so she picked up her three huge bags and high-tailed it for the door, casting terrified looks at my untidy house on the way back out into the 110 degree heat.
Now I'm no Martha Stewart, but I'd like to think that my home would be a very nice place for a drugged out gal to spend an afternoon.  Then again, I probably didn't want my home robbed so maybe it's for the best.  But it still smarts a bit that she'd pick the Vegas elements over my childrens' mess.  Maybe I'm the crazy one for living like this.  Anyone have a room I could rent?