It had started with a skiing accident. Two days and a leg cast later, Phoebe was set up in a chair by her window, ready for some quasi-legal voyeurism. Some people had Netflix; Phoebe had young Mr. Miller washing windows across the street.
Two hours later, Phoebe saw him look over. He’d noticed her. A fearful look came over his face. He was mouthing something at her. Suddenly she understood.
She turned and screamed at the figure looming over her.
“Admit it,” her husband said, when she’d recovered. “You deserved that.”
Across the street, Mr. Miller was laughing.