Page 22 of Boardroom Mask

I pick up the cup. It’s warm. I turn around and scan the shop. There’s a guy in a beanie on his laptop, two women sharing a scone, a mom wrestling a toddler into a high chair. Nobody is looking at me and none of them seem out of place.

But he’s here. Or he was.

My fingers tighten around the cup until the cardboard sleeve crumples. My pulse picks up fast and hard. I’m drowning in that prickly, animal awareness of being observed, the same feeling from the R train yesterday morning, except now it comes with context.

Now, I know exactly who’s on the other end of it.

I take a step toward the door and peer out through the glass. No one out there looks like a masked stalker, either.

My throat is dry. I look down at the cup in my hand. He knew my order. Not just the drink, but the milk and the extra shot. I don’t know how he knows, but he fuckingknows.

I bring the cup to my nose and sniff it, then immediately feel stupid. It smells like chai. What was I expecting, arsenic? Rat poison? A love potion?

But I don’t drink it. I set it back on the counter.

“Jillian.” Rae again, more insistent now. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Sorry. Got distracted. The barista mixed up an order, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay. You were saying something? Before?”

Yeah, I was. I was about to tell her everything. The man on the train, the break-in, the mask, the gun, the tongue on my neck, the confession thatI broke into your apartment to kill you. All of it was right there, ready to spill.

But he’s watching me.

“It’s nothing,” I say to Rae. “Just work stuff. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

I hang up, leave the chai on the counter, and walk out of the shop empty-handed. The thought of drinking cinnamon-flavored anything doesn’t sit well with me right now.

I keep my keys sticking out between my fisted fingers like I’m Wolverine as I stride home as fast as I possibly can. My eyes never stop moving. I track every pigeon, pedestrian, and shadow that comes anywhere near me. I brush past my doorman without my usual hello, then take the stairs instead of the elevator because at least in the stairwell I can hear footsteps. My calves burn by the time I reach the top.

I stop at my door and inspect the lock. It looks intact. I turn the key, push the door open, and step inside.

One step. That’s all I get.

Then I see that the living room window is open. Six inches of Manhattan’s finest evening air, pouring through the gap, rustling the curtain.

I did not leave that window open. I never leave that window open. Not ever, but especially not after last night.

My brain is running through options.Leave. Go downstairs. Call Rae. Call 911. Do literally anything other than stand here like an idiot in a horror movie.But my legs aren’t cooperating. They’ve gone heavy and wooden, rooted to the floor.

Then, from right behind me, close enough that I feel the warmth of it on the back of my neck, comes a man’s voice:

“Jillian.”

9

JILLIAN

“I never walk about after dark / It’s my point of view / ‘Cause someone could break your neck / Coming up behind you”

— “Oblivion” by Grimes

I spin around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.

Elliot is standing in the hallway, holding a takeout bag and, inexplicably, still wearing that same goofy Knicks jersey from last night. His sandy hair also looks like not a single follicle has budged since I saw him.

“Whoa, sorry, Jay!” He takes a step back. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just coming back from picking up food and I saw you on the stairs. Thought I’d swing by and say hey.”