Not a Plumbing Problem

Not from the sink. From the tub curtain. A shape crouched behind it, small and shaking, wrapped in his only clean towel. He saw a bare shoulder, then pale fingers gripping terrycloth so tight the knuckles went white.

He stepped into the doorway and blocked the hall with his body.

“Don’t move,” he said.

The woman lifted her head. Her hair hung in dark ropes. Mud streaked one cheek. “Please,” she whispered. Her breath snagged. “Don’t call anyone.”

Aaron’s first thought was Mia. His second was the rusty latch on the rear fire escape he’d meant to replace for two months. Forty bucks. He had stared at the hardware shelf three times, then bought milk, rice, and Mia’s asthma refill instead.

He kept his voice flat. “You’re in my bathroom.”

“I know.” She pressed the towel tighter. “I had to get inside.”

“How.”

She swallowed and looked toward the window over the tub. The glass was open a crack. Cold air cut in under the frame.

Aaron’s jaw tightened. The fire escape door had stuck all winter. If somebody knew how to work the latch, or just pushed hard enough—

A small voice drifted from the hall.

“Dad?”

Aaron turned his shoulder toward the sound. Mia stood there in striped pajamas, one hand on the doorframe, hair mashed on one side of her face. Her eyes went past him, to the wet stranger.

The woman recoiled as if struck.

Aaron held up a hand. “Bedroom. Now.”

Mia frowned. “Why is there a lady in the bathroom?”

“A plumbing problem.”

“That’s not a plumbing problem.”

“No.”

Mia took two steps closer, then stopped at his leg and hid half her face behind it. “Is she hurt?”

The woman looked at the child, then down at the towel. Shame and fear crossed her face so fast Aaron almost missed it.

Aaron heard the old alarm in his chest, the one that had lived there since the day the company security men walked him out of Hail Systems. Another setup. Another trap.

Then the woman twisted toward the wall and froze.

Her eyes had landed on the framed photo above the toilet paper holder. The one Mia had colored around with a purple marker. Aaron in an embroidered Hail Systems fleece, badge clipped to the collar, standing under the company logo like he still belonged there.

Her mouth opened.

“Aaron Miller?” she said.

He did not answer.

She stared at the picture, then at him. “You worked for Richard Hail.”