Page 27 of Boardroom Mask

“Okay, Ms. Pierce. Can you tell me what happened?”

I give them the short version, though it already feels like I’m re-telling a dream that someone once told me. All the details sound wrong and fuzzy, mismatched, confused. “… and then he went to the bathroom. He was gone for a while, so I went to check on him and found him like that.”

That story goes over about as well as I thought it would. The two officers share a frown and look back at me with lowered brows. “Did you see anyone enter or exit the bathroom area before or after you went back there?”

“No. Not that I saw. But I was… not paying that close attention, I guess.”

You know whowaspaying attention, though? Your new Shadow. A mask without form, leather gloves that know just where to reach to undo every lock, to push your hair back behind your ear, to coax you to your knees. A Masked Man with no name who’s playing you like a fool for his own sickamusement. Your stalker. The animal in the underbrush, just out of sight.

“… Ma’am?”

I blink and realize that Mustache was still asking me questions. “Sorry, could you ask that again?”

“I said, Did Mr. Wilkinson say anything about who attacked him?”

“No. He wouldn’t talk. He just kept shaking his head.”

“Well, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

Here it is. The question I’ve been dreading since the moment I saw the blood on the floor.

Oh, yes, Officer, Iknow exactly who did this. He smells like cinnamon, and if you gave me a pen, I could sketch out the shape of his body in the dark. He’s on the train and in my apartment, in my coffee shop, in the dingy back hallway of this tiny Thai restaurant. He’s everywhere, Officer. I can still feel the imprint of his tongue on my neck.

But I know that if I say any of that, the next question is: Why didn’t you report the break-in?

And the one after that: Why did you let a man with a gun leave your apartment without calling 911?

And the one after that, and the one after that, and eventually they’ll get to the question underneath all the other questions, which is: What exactly are you hiding, Ms. Pierce?

“No,” I tell him instead. “I have no idea.”

Mustache studies me for a second. A lifetime passes as those plain brown eyes regard me, and every second I spent twisting under his scrutiny is pure, self-inflicted torture.

In the end, he decides I’m telling an acceptable form of the truth, because he lets it go. “Alright, ma’am. That’s fine for now. We’ll need to review the restaurant’s security footage. We’ll find you if we have follow-up questions.”

“Sure. Yeah, that’s fine.”

The shorter cop reaches out to hand me a card. “If your friend remembers anything, or if you think of something, give us a call.”

“Yeah. Definitely. I will, of course I will.”

They head inside to talk to the restaurant staff, leaving me stranded on the sidewalk holding a bloody wad of paper towels, a cop’s card, and the full, crushing weight of what I’ve done.

Elliot got hurt because ofme. Because I went on a date I shouldn’t have gone on, with a man I don’t like in that way, to avoid going home to an apartment where a monster might be waiting. That monster saw it. And he didn’t punish me for it—he punishedElliot.

I knew this would happen, though, didn’t I? The Masked Man told me. He literally told me.People I care about tend to have very bad nights.He said that right to my face, standing in my dark apartment with his hand in my hair, and I heard him, and I understood him, and then I went ahead and did the exact thing he warned me not to do.

I knew. I knew and I did it anyway.

I’m a very bad person.

The paper towels are sticky and cold in my fist. I drop them into a trash can on the curb and wipe my hands on my jeans, but the feeling doesn’t come off. This is my fault. Mine and mine alone. I used Elliot as a security blanket and the Masked Man skinned him for it. The warning was clear and I ignored it.

Why, though? Because I was scared? Because I’m stubborn? Because some defiant part of me wanted to see if he’d actually follow through?

That last one sits wrong in my gut. Not because it’s false, but because it might be true.

I’m fascinated by him. I can admit that much, even though I repress everything else in my life that’s thorny or difficult. The Masked Man is not normal—but then again, neither am I.