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I press myself flatter to the floor, my shoulder blades digging into her bedframe. Dust settles around me but I steady my breaths. Old habits.

It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve been under a bed; usually it was closets and blanket forts. Mom turned it into a game. She would open the hollow bifold door and tell me to hide, because there were monsters that liked to eat good little children. And I was such a good little kid, wasn’t I? So I was their favorite snack. While I hid, she would go out there and “talk” to the monsters and convince them I was actually bad so they would leave.

In the beginning, that was my favorite part. Imagining my brave mother squaring up with monsters, telling them how naughty I was—that I never listened or ate my vegetables. Sometimes I’d hear the monsters yell back—sometimes it would take them hours to leave—but she never let them find me. Mom kept me safe. She said to not come out, no matter what I heard. As long as I stayed still enough and quiet enough, they wouldn’t detect me.

The front door unlocks, rescuing me from the memories. It takes me a moment, but eventually I wrangle my phone from my pocket and put it on silent. Jesus, I can’t believe I let myself lose track of time. What an amateur . . .

She walks in, keys clanging into a bowl as the door shuts and the deadbolt slides behind her. My pulse pounds so loud I’m certain she can hear it down the hall. From the kitchen echoes the sound of her unpacking cans, jars, and other miscellaneous food paraphernalia, I assume. I tilt my head to the side, getting a good look at the window. There’s no way I can get out of here without her hearing me open it, and even if I could, all that does is leave me trapped on a window ledge two stories up. There can’t be a sign that anybody was here or I’ll only drive up her dose of anxiety meds.

There’s gotta be another way out.

The kitchen is right next to the front door, there’s no way for me to get past without her seeing me, but the escape will need to happen before she settles in for the night. I’d rather not have to wait for her to go to sleep before I can leave.

My eyes pass over the fireplace as I consider climbing up the fucking chimney—there’s no way I’d fit. It must not work because she has tall pillar candles stacked inside. On that same wall are the original wood panels shown throughout the house. I stare at them for a bit while my thoughts race, and that’s when I notice a seam following a trim board near the floor. My gaze traces the subtle lines in the wood that form a rectangle below the hanging mirror. It’s about three feet tall and two feet wide. It’s camouflaged well, I would have never seen it if I hadn’t been studying it with my cheek pressed to the floor. Maybe an access panel to the fireplace somehow? There’s no way, it’s all bricked in . . .

For a moment I forget about needing to escape, curiosity has me in its grip. I need to know what that weird panel is. Stretching my arm out from under the bed I hear footsteps headed my way and I yank it back. My heart pumps again as her feet appear and I retreat further from sight, tucking my chin down to my chest.

A shirt falls to the floor, which means . . . She’s topless. Her pants go next.

Now I really want to peek, but I don’t because it feels like crossing a line.

Fuck me, between those tiny shorts she wore at her dance class and tattooing her back, I have a pretty good idea of what her body looks like. She bends over to pick up the shirt and tosses it in a hamper, then appears to be dressing in some matching lounge set she removed from the bottom drawer. I can’t see anything more than her knees down since she’s so close. Anna saunters back toward the kitchen and I catch a sliver of her tying her pink hair into a mess at the top of her head before she rounds the corner.

Focus.

My gaze returns to the panel. I wait until I hear her start chopping before I drag myself out from under the bed. My ears are homed in on the sound; as long as I hear the knife hitting that wooden cutting board, I’m safe in here. On my knees I dig out my lockpick set and jam the shaft of the tool into the crack until it’s wedged firmly in place. I repeat the process with my L-shaped pick near the trim board, and it goes through like the other one. There’s some kind of compartment back here and I’m dying to know what’s in it. It’s like a hidden door.

My hands work slowly as if I’m defusing a bomb. I turn the L-shaped pick enough to catch and carefully pry it apart with a loud crack. The chopping in the kitchen pauses. Uh-oh.

I swing open the panel in the wall with a squeak; it’s mostly cobwebs, but the space is deep. Footsteps grow louder as I scoop up my tools into the soft case and crawl through the opening in the wall. In less than a second, I shut the secret door behind me with a thunk, encasing myself in darkness.

I hold my breath.

Her footsteps pause on the other side of the wall. I imagine her scanning the room, searching for the source of the noise. My heart hammers behind my ribs. I haven’t had this much fun in a long while.

Eventually her steps retreat, growing softer as she walks out of the bedroom. I exhale.

After a minute, the dull echo of her chopping starts up again and I decide it’s safe to move. I can’t see shit. I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight, cutting through the darkness.

A slow smile grows on my face until I’m grinning ear to ear.

I’m in some kind of narrow hallway—a secret corridor. I stand up, shining the flashlight down the passageway. To my right, a large swath of wallpaper has peeled back, exposing the muslin backing. My fingers trace over it, feeling the slats of wood behind it.

Goddamn, I can’t imagine living in a place like this as a kid. I was the king of hiding when I was younger, but if I had a house like this? They would never find me. I could stay hidden forever.

My head falls back and I cover a laugh. Looks like I found a way to see her more than our once-a-month appointment—and the occasional dance class which I hope I won’t have to attend much longer because my body won’t survive it.

Best case? I get to sneak into her house unnoticed.

Worst case? I get a paycheck for a mesothelioma class action.

Sounds like a win-win to me.

Based on the number of spiderwebs and the condition of the walls, I don’t think anyone’s been back here since . . . shit, I don’t know. Maybe since they split the mansion into four separate units. The landlord might not even know it’s here . . . and that’s the only reason I’m not raising hell.

I shine the light behind me, and the hall continues in the other direction, then turns ninety degrees. This is so cool. Someday I’ll take time to explore, but for now, I’m only interested in determining if there’s a secret entrance I can use for future comings and goings because there’s no way in hell I’m not taking advantage of this cosmic gift. For someone like me, this house is an endless playground.

Backtracking, I fish a dollar from my wallet and place it on the floor where the panel was located for Anna’s apartment, so I don’t forget. Through the walls, her chopping grows louder—I must be on the other side of her kitchen. This corridor stretches the length of her apartment. Holy shit.