Page 100 of Boardroom Mask

“I don’t.” He lets the engine idle for a few seconds. “The reporter. The redhead.”

Every muscle in my body locks up.

“You need to make your move,” he advises. “Soon.”

I keep my hand on the door handle and try to control my breathing. “I told my father it would be handled.”

“Yeah, you did. And he believed you the first time. Maybe the second.” Afon drums one thick thumb against the steering wheel. “He doesn’t believe you anymore.”

“That’s between me and him.”

“It won’t be for much longer.” He finally turns his head. His face is unreadable in the dim glow of the dashboard instruments. “He’s already making the plans, son. Reaching out. Putting feelers on the street. You know how it goes.”

I do know how it goes. Lukas has a short list of people he trusts for this kind of work. “Not you?”

He shakes his head. “I told him it’d be better done by someone outside the organization. Hired gun.”

“Then who?” I ask.

Afon shakes his head. “I don’t know the specifics. I just know the wheels are turning, and they’re turning faster than you think.” He looks back at the windshield. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick. Because the window where you still get to be the one making the choice is closing. And once it closes—” He shrugs those enormous shoulders. “It don’t open again.”

I sit there for a long moment, considering. “Why are you telling me this at last?” I ask.

Afon takes his time considering the question. “Because your father asked me to bring you out tonight so he could see if youstill had it in you. And you do. That man in the alley is proof.” He pauses. “But I’ve been around long enough to know that having it in you and being willing to use it aren’t always the same thing. Not when it comes to certain people.”

I open the door. The cold air rushes in.

“Clock’s ticking,” Afon says behind me. “Don’t let it run out.”

Inside the penthouse, I don’t turn on the lights. I drop my jacket on the back of the couch and pour three fingers of vodka, then drink it standing at the kitchen counter, staring at the cracked marble coffee table I never replaced.

Then I do the thing I always do.

I open the feed.

Jillian’s apartment loads in crystal night-vision green. The kitchen is empty, cleaned up, glasses put away like I was never even there. I swipe to the bedroom camera, now that it’s been restored to its original location. Despite the late hour, the bed is still made. Jillian is nowhere to be seen.

I switch to the tracking app. Her phone’s location appears on the map as a small green dot. It’s not in any of the places I might’ve guessed. Not at Rae’s place or the office.

It’s on Mulberry Street. Little Italy. I pinch to zoom and the pin resolves over an unusual site: the Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral.

When I see that, I frown at the screen. Why is she in a cathedral at five in the morning?

I know the answer before I’ve finished asking: Some weight gets too heavy to carry alone.

I pocket the phone, pick my jacket back up off the couch, and stride out. I haven’t set foot in a church since my mother’s memorial. I swore that day I’d never go back. I wanted nothing to do with a God who’d make a man like Lukas Lazarev.

But for her, I’ll go.

40

JILLIAN

“Take me to church / I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies”

— “Take Me to Church” by Hozier

As I expected, the cathedral is almost entirely empty. It’s just me and an old woman seated close to the front on the right-hand side. I pick a pew near the back, on the left, and sit down. The wood is cold through my jeans. The ceiling is impossibly high above me, vaulted and painted in muted golds and blues that I can barely make out in the low light. Candles flicker along the side aisles.