Page 10 of Boardroom Mask

Again, I get that feeling that he’s grinning. My forehead is resting against the cold plaster of my wall and my eyes are closed, but his grin, his sick, twistedpleasure,is a third occupant in the room with us.

My knees are already starting to ache against the hardwood. “What do you want?” I croak.

“To have a conversation.”

“Most people just send a text.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Y’know, I gathered that from the whole home-invasion thing. Really sets you apart from the pack.” I gulp, then ask, “How did you even get in here?”

“Your deadbolt is a Schlage B60N,” he says. “Single-cylinder, five-pin tumbler. It took me about ninety seconds to dismantle the whole thing.”

“Cool. Love that. Very reassuring. And the lights? I assume you cut the breaker?”

“I did.”

“And my phone?”

“Okay. So you planned this. This wasn’t spontaneous.”

His amusement deepens. “No, little fox, it was not.”

“How long have you been planning it?”

No answer to that one.

“Were you on the R train this morning?”

A long pause. Then he asks, “You noticed me?”

“Kinda hard not to. You were doing that whole brooding serial-killer-chic thing. Very popular nowadays, but pretty conspicuous for someone who’s trying to be covert.”

“I wanted to see what you’d do.”

“And? What did I do?”

I stiffen as, with no warning, a gloved fingertip strokes the side of my neck. Leather on skin. He brushes a strand of hair away from my throat, slow and tender, tucking it behind my ear.

A shudder runs through me, starting at that epicenter of contact and radiating outward in every direction. I’m glad for the dark, because I’ve always been cursed with pale skin, and he’d see instantly that I’m flushed from head to toe.

My stomach clenches and my thighs press together, involuntary and damning. There is absolutely no mistaking what it is that’s igniting within me.

I’m actuallyturned onby this sick freak.

I squeeze my eyes tighter shut. My breathing has gone ragged. I can feel the goosebumps racing up my arms, prickling under the worn cotton of my sweatshirt.

“It’s what youdidn’tdo that interests me, Ms. Pierce.” His breath is warm against my ear. “You didn’t tell a living soul.”

I feel sick—because he’s right. I didn’t. I almost told Weston at lunch, and then I decided it was nothing. I swallowed it down and moved on with my day. I didn’t call the cops, or text Rae, or mention it to Doug. I just... let it go.

“Even if thatistrue, so what?” I say.

“So that tells me something about you.”

“It tells you I thought you were just another creep on the subway. Congratulations. You blended in with the rest of them.”

“No.” That word comes out in a twist of anger that sends a chill rippling along the same paths that the heat just went. He doesn’t like being told he’s just like the others, apparently, indistinguishable from every subway masturbator and construction site leerer that New York has ever produced. He wants to bedifferent. God only knows why. “It tells me you’re used to being afraid. You’ve been afraid for so long that, when something actually dangerous showed up, you couldn’t distinguish it from the background noise.” He pauses again and draws in a slow, almost tortured breath. “You’re going to wish youhadtold someone, though. By the time the night is over, you’ll be regretting that choice quite a bit.”