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Chapter: Bargaining
The drain starts again at 2:13 a.m.
Harold is already awake.
He hasn’t slept properly in days. Not since the bathroom started speaking in full sentences. Not since the knocking.
It isn’t loud this time.
Just a soft, wet suction.
Like breath pulled through teeth.
He sits upright in bed, hair damp with sweat, hands already trembling.
“No,” he says to the dark. “No. Not tonight.”
The drain answers.
A low, patient gurgle.
Waiting.
?
He stumbles into the bathroom without turning on the light.
He doesn’t need to.
He knows the layout. He knows the sink. He knows exactly where the sound lives.
“Stop,” he says.
The word cracks.
The mirror reflects him in fractured pieces — hotel lighting carving him into something gaunt and wrong. His hair sticks up in clumps where he’s been pulling at it. His eyes look swollen.
The drain makes a soft, hollow sound.
Then—
“Harold.”
He grips the sink so hard his knuckles pale.
“Don’t,” he whispers.
“You could have opened it.”
The voice isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.
He slams his palm against the porcelain.
“I told you to stop locking yourself in there!”
The words spill out fast. Defensive. Desperate.
“You always did this. You always made it worse.”
The drain gurgles again.
Not accusing.
Not angry.
Just… present.
“I didn’t mean to leave you,” he says, pacing now. Back and forth. Back and forth. “You were dramatic. You were always dramatic.”
Silence.
Then—
“I fell.”
He freezes.
That’s how she said it.
Not screaming.
Not hysterical.
Just small.
“I fell, Harold. My head’s bleeding.”
His breathing turns shallow.
He remembers the knock.
Soft.
Three taps.
Not pounding.
Not frantic.
“Unlock it,” she’d said.
And he—
He’d rolled over.
“You’re lying,” he’d muttered into the pillow. “You just want attention.”
The drain makes a sharp sucking noise.
Harold clutches his hair with both hands now, yanking.
“I didn’t know it was that bad!”
His voice echoes off tile.
“You did,” the voice says gently.
He shakes his head violently.
“No. No. No. I thought you were faking. You always fake.”
Another memory flashes.
Blood slipping under the door.
Not a lot.
Just enough to see if you were looking.
He’d looked.
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He’d stared at it.
And then he’d checked the clock.
2:14 a.m.
Too late to deal with.
Morning would be easier.
He had work.
He had a presentation.
He needed sleep.
“I was tired,” he mutters now. “I was tired.”
“You were angry.”
He laughs.
It sounds wrong.
Unstable.
“You were always pushing me,” he shouts at the sink. “You locked yourself in there to punish me. To make me look like the bad guy!”
The drain bubbles.
“You locked it.”
His hands fall.
Slowly.
He stares at the sink like it might open.
“I had the key,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
He staggers backward.
“I didn’t think—”
“You decided.”
The words hit like a physical shove.
He shakes his head harder, pacing again, faster now.
“No. No, no, no. I didn’t decide. I was teaching you a lesson. That’s different.”
The bathroom light flickers.
Once.
Twice.
“You were misbehaving,” he says, voice rising. “You always misbehaved. You slammed doors. You cried over nothing. You—”
“You locked it.”
“I was proving a point!”
“You lay down.”
“I thought you were bluffing!”
“You checked the time.”
He screams.
A raw, animal sound that tears up his throat.
“I HEARD YOU, OKAY?!”
Silence.
The words hang there.
Heavy.
Wrong.
He freezes.
The drain goes completely still.
He swallows.
Breathing ragged.
“I heard you,” he repeats, softer now. “I heard you say you fell. I heard you say you were bleeding.”
His hands begin to shake again.
“I thought you’d stop,” he says. “I thought you’d get up. You always got up.”
The memory presses in harder now.
No knocking.
No more talking.
Just quiet.
Thick.
Wrong.
He had woken up at 6:32 a.m.
Rolled over.
Stared at the door.
Waited.
Still no sound.
He’d unlocked it then.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was the one who might get hurt.
She was on the tile.
Blood dried at her temple.
Cold.
So cold.
“I didn’t mean for you to die,” he whispers.
The drain does not respond.
His voice rises again — frantic, hysterical.
“You shouldn’t have gone in there! You knew I’d lock it! You knew I was angry!”
His hands slam into the sink.
“You shouldn’t have pushed me!”
The words echo.
Ugly.
Desperate.
“You made me do it,” he says weakly.
The silence that follows is worse than any voice.
His chest heaves.
His reflection stares back at him — red-eyed, wild, lips trembling.
“You fell,” he says to the mirror.
“You slipped.”
“You hit your head.”
He repeats it.
Over and over.
Faster.
Louder.
Until the words blur together.
“You fell you fell you fell you fell—”
A pounding hits the hotel door.
Hard.
Authoritative.
“Sir? We’ve had multiple complaints!”
He doesn’t hear it at first.
He’s laughing now.
High. Broken.
“I didn’t open it,” he tells the sink. “I didn’t open it because I thought you were lying.”
Another knock.
“Sir, we need you to open the door.”
He finally turns.
Stares at the door like it’s something foreign.
“They’re coming,” he says softly.
“To fix it.”
The drain is quiet.
The bathroom is dry.
There is no voice.
Just him.
Breathing too fast.
Smiling too wide.
When the door opens minutes later, Harold is still standing over the sink.
Hands bloodless white from gripping porcelain.
Muttering the same thing.
“I heard her.”
“I heard her.”
“I just didn’t open it.”
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The holding room smells like stale coffee and disinfectant.
Harold hasn’t stopped shaking.
Not in the patrol car.
Not in the hallway.
Not now.
His hands are cuffed to the metal table. He keeps flexing his fingers like he forgot they’re restrained.
Across from him sits Officer Reynolds.
The same officer who stood in Harold’s living room that morning ten months ago.
The same one who saw the blood on the bathroom tile.
Reynolds doesn’t look angry.
He looks tired.
“You want to tell me why hotel staff said you were screaming?” Reynolds asks.
Harold laughs.
It’s too loud.
“They don’t understand acoustics,” he says. “Bathrooms echo.”
Reynolds doesn’t react.
“You were shouting about a door,” the officer continues. “About not opening it.”
Harold’s mouth twitches.
He stares at the table.
“That was a long time ago.”
Reynolds leans back slightly.
“Was it?”
Silence.
Harold starts pulling at his hair again, even with his hands cuffed. Short, frantic tugs.
“She fell,” Harold says quickly. “We’ve been over this.”
“I’m aware,” Reynolds replies calmly. “Slipped in the bathroom. Head trauma. Door locked.”
Harold nods too hard.
“Yes. Yes. That’s what happened.”
Reynolds slides a thin file across the table.
“We never found the key on her,” he says quietly.
Harold’s breath stutters.
Reynolds watches him carefully.
“Bathroom doors don’t usually lock from the outside.”
Harold’s jaw tightens.
“She— she liked privacy.”
“From the outside?”
Harold laughs again.
Too sharp.
“You think I killed her?” he blurts.
Reynolds doesn’t answer.
That’s worse.
Harold’s knee starts bouncing under the table. Fast. Erratic.
“She was dramatic,” he says suddenly. “You didn’t know her. She always overreacted. She’d cry over nothing. Slam doors. Lock herself in.”
Reynolds folds his hands.
“Did she lock it that night?”
Harold’s breathing speeds up.
“Yes.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Reynolds doesn’t blink.
“And you didn’t hear her?”
Harold swallows.
“I was asleep.”
Reynolds leans forward slightly.
“You told dispatch you checked the clock when you heard a noise.”
The room goes very still.
Harold’s lips part.
“That’s normal,” he says too quickly. “People check the time when they wake up.”
“You woke up.”
“I—”
“You heard something.”
Harold’s hands curl into fists against the cuffs.
“I thought she was lying,” he snaps suddenly.
The words come out sharp.
Uncontrolled.
Reynolds doesn’t move.
“Lying about what?”
Harold’s breathing turns shallow.
“About falling. About bleeding. She— she’d exaggerate. She wanted attention.”
Reynolds’ voice stays level.
“So you heard her say she fell.”
Harold freezes.
His eyes dart up.
Then away.
“I—”
“You heard her,” Reynolds repeats.
The air feels too thin.
Harold starts laughing again.
But this time it cracks halfway through.
“I didn’t think she was actually hurt,” he says, shaking his head. “She knocked all the time. She’d say things to get me to unlock it.”
Reynolds’ jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You locked it.”
Harold’s head jerks up.
“No.”
“You had the key.”
Harold’s chest rises and falls rapidly now.
“She was being hysterical,” he says louder. “She needed to calm down. That’s all. It was discipline.”
Reynolds’ pen stops moving.
“Discipline.”
“She was misbehaving!”
His voice spikes.
“She wouldn’t listen! She kept pushing me!”
Reynolds’ tone doesn’t change.
“So you locked the door.”
Harold’s eyes go glassy.
“I just wanted quiet,” he says, almost to himself. “Just one night of quiet.”
The officer watches him carefully.
“And when she said she fell?”
Harold’s breathing falters.
“She said she hit her head,” he whispers.
“And?”
Silence.
Harold’s fingers dig into his own palms.
“I thought she was bluffing.”
Reynolds waits.
Harold’s voice rises suddenly, wild.
“I HEARD HER, OKAY?!”
The words echo against cinderblock.
“I heard her say she was bleeding! I heard her knocking! I just—”
His voice fractures.
Reynolds doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t open it,” Harold says.
The sentence lands heavy.
Thick.
Real.
Tears spring into his eyes but he’s not crying — he’s shaking.
“I didn’t open it because I was angry,” he says. “I didn’t open it because I thought she deserved it. I didn’t open it because I thought she was lying.”
Reynolds speaks quietly.
“And when you unlocked it in the morning?”
Harold’s lips tremble.
“She was cold.”
Silence.
Reynolds studies him for a long moment.
“You understand what you just said.”
It isn’t a question.
Harold looks down at his cuffed wrists.
For the first time, he seems to understand too.
And the hysterical smile that spreads across his face isn’t relief.
It’s collapse.
Reynolds doesn’t say anything for a long time.
The room hums with fluorescent light.
Harold is still breathing hard, still shaking, like he expects someone to correct him. To tell him he didn’t just say that out loud.
Reynolds finally reaches forward and presses a button on the recorder.
The small red light glows steady.
“For the record,” Reynolds says calmly, “you’re stating that your wife told you she’d fallen. That she said she was bleeding. And you chose not to unlock the door.”
Harold’s eyes flick up.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
His tongue drags across dry teeth.
“I didn’t think—”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
Harold’s shoulders slump.
“I heard her,” he whispers.
Reynolds nods once.
“That’s what I thought.”
He stands.
The scrape of the chair against the concrete is louder than it should be.
Harold watches him move to the door like he’s watching something irreversible happen in slow motion.
“Officer—” Harold starts.
Reynolds pauses.
“You can’t— I didn’t— it wasn’t—”
“You heard her,” Reynolds repeats.
And this time it isn’t a question.
The door opens.
Two uniformed officers step inside.
The cuffs on the table click free.
But not in the way Harold expects.
They pull him to his feet.
“Wait,” he says, panic finally breaking through the hysteria. “It was an accident. She fell. She— she was dramatic. She always—”
The words crumble in his mouth.
The hallway feels longer than before.
Brighter.
Too real.
As they lead him away, Harold turns his head back toward the interrogation room.
For a second—just one—
He swears he hears it.
A soft, rhythmic knock.
Not angry.
Not desperate.
Just patient.
Waiting.
