Nonplussed – or maybe flummoxed, but I guess it could be both – I stared at the solitary pink sock that lay under my desk. It was a gloomy Friday morning, and I had just walked into my office. Which, by the way, had been unlocked when I came in.

I work in an old building. It’s long and narrow, two stories, with a single central hallway running the length of each floor, with offices and small labs on both sides. There’s a lot of confidential work that goes on, so there’s an ID scanner with a keypad that requires a code to get into the building. There are no windows, and all the office doors stay closed.

They haven’t bothered to install keypads on individual office doors; rather, they’re secured by a standard deadbolt and key. As another security measure, the keys for each department are the same. Might sound a bit strange, but the justification is that if the facilities people or IT team need to get in, then the procedure is for them to knock on adjacent offices until they find someone who can let them in, and then that person is also obligated to stay and monitor their activities and lock up after they leave. Yeah, not a great system, but there you have it.

An unlocked door to an empty office is a definite security violation, and I was positive I had locked it when I left on Thursday. Almost positive. Shit, it would result in a letter of caution in my file if this was discovered. So ... first, figure out who it was? Because of the unlocked door, and the keys, the principle of parsimony – a.k.a. Occam’s Razor – said it was probably someone in my group.

I work with a team of eight people. There are three software engineers, three developers, a tech writer who we share with another group, and me, who serves double duty as logistician and group lead. I’m a qualified systems engineer as well, but the team is more than capable, and my engineering role is mostly relegated to decision-making and coordinating with the hardware team and the customer. We develop ‘solutions’ for the government and the military – not anything super-secret, but still, enough said about that for now.

I sat at my desk, going over each of my team members in my head. The engineers are Samir, Jonathan, and Liam. The developers are Rajesh, Fred, and Chloë. Liz is our tech writer, and I’m Mel.

I already had a pretty good idea of who it belonged to ... based on the pink color and the anime character on it, all signs pointed to my newest hire, a mousy little software developer named Chloë Hu. Born in the US to Chinese immigrant parents, valedictorian of her high school class, scholarship to Tech.

Chloë had interned with us the previous summer, and had come on board full-time just four months ago after her graduation from Tech. She had just turned 22. She was a tiny little thing, with long black hair that she usually wore down – I think mostly so she could hide behind it. Her body was a mystery; she wore baggy sweatshirts and cargo pants most of the time. A typical introvert. But a very good software developer. She’d picked up our methods in no time.

I’m in the office by 0700 usually, but when I logged into the security system to check the door log, I saw that this morning, Chloë’s ID had been used at 0430. Curious, I wandered down to the SCIF where the team did their heavy lifting. I saw her glance at me as I entered, then quickly look away, keeping her head down and focused on her monitors. She was the only one in there.

I moved to where I could see her feet. Busted. One ankle was tellingly bare.

“Good morning, Chloë,” I opened.

She mumbled something, keeping her eyes on her screen, fingers busy on her keyboard. She seemed to pull her shoulders in, trying to appear even smaller than she already was. Her long black hair obscured much of her face.

“In early today, I see.” Captain Obvious, that’s me...

She bobbed a nod of agreement.

Folding my arms, I leaned back against Samir’s workstation and asked, “So, how’s your part of the new project coming?”

Her fingers faltered to a halt, and she whispered, “G-good...” and her voice completely failed her as she finally looked at me, to see me dangling a single sock from my fingers. I very overtly looked down at her feet, then back up to her face.

Unfortunately, just at that moment, Samir came in.

“Hey guys, good morninggg...” and just as Chloë had a moment before, he stopped talking as he observed us staring at each other. “Umm ... what’s up?”

When I heard the door, I quickly shoved Chloë’s sock into my pocket. Turning, I said, “Not much! Good morning, Samir. I saw that Chloë had come in early and I stopped in to see how she’s progressing on the new project.”

Well, with that, he began jabbering excitedly about all the things they’d done over the past week, ever since we’d been handed this new assignment. I listened carefully, asked a few questions, then thanked him. Chloë hadn’t opened her mouth once. Not unusual for her, actually.

“Good work,” I told him, meaning it.

Samir beamed.

I thanked him and headed for the door, but just as I was about to exit, I swiveled to look at her.

“Chloë?” Her head snapped around, eyes wide.

“My office, please?” I said politely, making it a request, just like I would any of my group when I wanted to speak with them.

“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.

J/J/J/J

Yeah, I know. Ma’am? Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be deceitful; my name really is Mel. Short for Melisandre – and not that freaky Red Witch from Game of Thrones, either. No, for one I was born before those books came out, and for two, my mom loved classical music, and one of her favorites was Debussy’s opera, “Pelléas and Mélisandre”. She told me that she was pretty sure I was conceived after a performance she attended when she was living in Wales in 1992.

Gah, TMI, Mom! But yeah, do the math ... Sperm meets egg in ‘92, born in ‘93 ... you figure it out. And apparently, I’m half Welsh, for whatever that’s worth. Whee.

She’d followed my sperm-donor there after he finished his ‘semester abroad’ and returned to Swansea. Actually, he was from a town nearby called Mumbles. When she told me that, I started to laugh, and then when she added that the town name was derived from the French ‘mamelles’, well ... I’m afraid I spit my tea all over the kitchen table.

She chuckled with me. Then, more soberly, she told me that while he was very charming and good looking, he was a bit of a man-child and had ‘done a runner’ when she quietly informed him that she was pregnant. Not her proudest moment, she admitted, but the joy of having me eclipsed any possible regrets.

There she was, dumped and alone in a strange – beautiful, but strange – country. It was a pretty obvious choice to come back home. And it was me and her against the world, from the time I was hatched until I left for college. I think she’s dating some now, and I’m happy for her. Shit, she’s only in her early 50s. A lot of life left in the old girl, and she’s probably my best friend.

She once told me that she knew how to get in touch with the man-child if I ever wanted, but I figured if he couldn’t be bothered, then why should I?

There was a brief period during my teens when I discovered theatre, and was convinced I wanted to be an actor, and had haughtily insisted on my full name. Fortunately, I came to my senses, and now I was quite happy being just ‘Mel’. I got pretty good at dealing with the misogynists who were surprised that I didn’t have a dick, when meeting me for the first time. Sorry to disappoint.

But I digress.

J/J/J/J

About five minutes after I left the SCIF, there was an almost imperceptible tap-tap on my door.

“Entrez, s’il vous plaît.”

Okay, maybe there was still a little theatre in my blood, and I was feeling French today. I had minored in it at school. Ne jugez pas!

Like she was heading for her own execution, Chloë slunk into the room. Her fingers were twining together, and her head – as usual – was down, face obscured by a curtain of hair. She stood apprehensively before my desk.

I got up, put the “Classified Work in Progress” sign on the outside of my door, then closed it and deliberately turned the deadbolt. The sudden “clunk” made her jump.

Returning to my seat, I crossed my legs and regarded her. I held up the sock again. “This is yours, yes?”

That dark waterfall of hair bobbed in time with her nod.

“Want to tell me why you were in here? Sitting at my desk, if where I found this is any indication?”

I was met with mortified silence.

“Chloë, my door was unlocked! That’s a security violation, you know. Do you want that on my record?”

She frantically shook her head from side to side, tresses flying. “No! I’m sorry! I ... I thought ... I thought I heard s-something and I p-panicked!”

“Still doesn’t answer why you were in here. With your shoes off.”

“Please...” If anything, her whisper was even more subdued than before. “Please don’t make me say...”

Now I was confused. As I stared at her in puzzlement, I saw her eyes flick up at me, then back down. Her fidgeting got worse.

Something ... there was something ... I got this weird feeling that she wanted me to push her. To force her to tell. Don’t ask me why.

I went with my gut.

“Fine.” I picked up my phone, then gazed levelly at her. “You know you’re still on probation, right?” It was true. She’d only been full-time for four months. Two more to go.

Well, that certainly got her attention. In a panic, she blurted, “N-no, please!”

I just looked at her, sock in one hand, phone in the other. “Choose, Chloë.”

Hanging her head, she pointed a trembling finger at the sock. I put the phone down, crossed my arms, and waited.

“I...” was all she got out before she shut down again. When nothing more was forthcoming, I started to reach for the phone again.

Just as my fingers touched the handset, she gave a defeated sigh and murmured something. Too soft for me to catch.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was masturbating!” she finally admitted, and I don’t think I’d ever seen another human being look as pitiful as she did at that moment.

But on top of that, to say I was stunned would be the understatement of the century.

“Ummm ... what? What did you say?” I blinked at her. “Did you say you were... masturbating?”

She nodded miserably.

“In my $1400 leather Herman Miller chair?” It was the first thing that came to mind, sorry. The chair was fine. I hadn’t noticed any stains, or odors, or ... As my mind wandered down that path, clearly lost, she winced and looked sick to her stomach.

“I’m sorry ... I p-put a t-towel down, I’ll pay to h-have it cleaned...”

I waved that away. “But why, Chloë? I mean, if you need to be alone, can’t you ... don’t...”

She shook her head. “I still live with my parents, my grandparents, my aunt, and her two kids. I still share a room with my sister. Someone is always home.”

“Wow. Okay, no alone time at home.” My mind was racing, and it occurred to me that there was more to this story than just trying to find a place where she could be by herself. Not having her own space at home sounded just a little weak.

“Chloë ... I still don’t understand. Why my office?” Then I looked more closely at the sock. Oh, fuck. Could it be? It was only a sock, so it was hard to tell, but the image on it appeared to be of a tall blonde woman.

“Who’s this character? Anime?” I held it out, and she took it gently.

Staring at it, a little smile peeking through, she perked up a little. “Yeah, kinda. Chinese anime, it’s called ’donghua’. This is Qian Renxue. She pronounced it ‘chee-EN ren-shweh’.