Page 51 of Boardroom Mask

Everything is still.

Then she walks into frame.

She’s wrapped in a towel, hair dark and wet against her shoulders, leaving damp prints on the hardwood with her bare feet. She stops at the dresser and pulls open the top drawer. I watch her rifle through it, tossing aside what she doesn’t want. She settles on something dark red, holds it up, then drops the towel.

I should close the laptop.

I am not closing this fucking laptop.

Her back is to the camera, so I can see the full length of her spine, the freckles scattered across her shoulder blades, the dip of her waist before it flares out into her hips. She’s not thin in the way that models are thin. She’s soft in some places and firm in others and built in a way that makes my hands ache because I already know what she feels like under my palms.

She hooks the bra and adjusts the straps, pulling each one up in turn. Then she bends to step into underwear, matching, dark red, and pulls them up over her thighs.

When she turns toward the vanity, I catch her in profile. The curve of her breast pressed into that red lace, a perfect handful. The soft stretch of her stomach. She sits down on the stool and reaches for a bottle of perfume, then tilts her head to the side to spray it along her neck.

My jaw is tight. My pulse is in my ears. I’m half-hard already and she’s barely dressed, just sitting there doing something she does every day, something she’s probably done a thousand times without anyone watching. That’s what gets me. The privacy of it. This version of Jillian—unhurried, unguarded, towel-damp, and choosing red underwear for no one at all to see—is a version she hasn’t shown anyone.

Except for me.

She disappears for a while, then returns with blow-dried hair. I watch her put on makeup, then step into black jeans and a beige turtleneck. She tucks her phone and keys into a big purse before stepping out of frame again.

I watch the empty bedroom for a few seconds before I snap the laptop shut. My body knows where I’m going before the rest of me has caught up. Like Jillian, I snatch up my keys and phone, shrug on my coat, and leave my apartment. I can feel the bulk of the mask inside the jacket pocket, but I leave it there for now. I’m just going to watch, not interact. She won’t even know I’m there.

I pull on a black cap and sunglasses, even though the sun has almost fully set. It’s Thanksgiving, so the streets will be emptierthan usual, which makes tailing someone harder but also means fewer eyes on me.

The elevator in my building always takes too long, so I go to the stairs instead and descend two at a time, even though it’s thirty-two flights down to the parking garage. I bypass the car and head for the street exit on foot.

When I reach the street, I start walking west.

It doesn’t take long to pick up her trail. After all, she’s easy to spot. I could ID that head full of red hair from a mile away. She’s moving fast, headphones screwed into her ears, but she keeps looking around, checking behind her every half block or so. Smart girl.

Not smart enough, though. I stay on the opposite side of the street, half a block back, matching her pace. She never sees me.

She takes a left on 72nd and heads into Riverside Park. That surprises me. It’s getting dark and cold, not exactly prime park-going conditions, so I figured she was headed to dinner somewhere. But she keeps walking along the path, hands shoved deep in her coat pockets, breath coming out in small, white clouds.

The park is mostly empty. I fall back farther, using the trees and the dying light as cover. She doesn’t look behind her anymore. Whatever alertness she had on the street has drained away. Her shoulders are down and her pace has slowed to something that barely counts as walking.

She stops at a playground.

It’s one of those newer ones with the rubberized ground and the bright plastic equipment. There are maybe a half-dozen kidsstill out, bundled in puffy jackets, burning off energy while their parents hover nearby with coffee cups and phones. A little girl in a pink hat is going down the slide over and over, shrieking every time. A boy is hanging upside down from the monkey bars while his mother tells him to be careful.

Jillian stands at the fence and watches.

That’s it. Just watches. She simply stands there with both hands curled around the chain-link, watching the kids play.

I find a spot behind a maintenance shed about forty yards away and wait. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The streetlights come on and couple of the families pack up and leave. The girl in the pink hat throws a tantrum about going home and gets carried away under her father’s arm, screaming her head off.

Jillian still doesn’t move.

I don’t understand what I’m seeing. She’s not meeting anyone, or taking photos or notes as if this were something work-related. She’s just standing at a fence watching children on a playground on Thanksgiving evening, alone, and I have no framework for why.

After what must be twenty minutes, she finally lets go of the fence. She turns and walks back toward the path, and as she passes under a streetlight, I see her drag the back of her hand across her eyes. Once, then again.

She’s crying.

I press my back flat against the cold metal of the shed and let her pass without following. Something happened to this woman. It’s beyond what I already know, more than the thing that madeher leave her body when I pinned her against the wall that first night. There’s a wound here I can’t see.

Who hurt you, little fox?