Page 109 of Boardroom Mask

KIR

“Choke this love ‘til the veins start to shiver / One last breath ‘til the tears start to wither”

— “River” by Bishop Briggs

“This is the best date of my life.”

One little sentence is all it takes to gut me.

It’s the surprise in her voice that gets me most of all. She’s almost awed by the concept itself. Not just a date, not just a good date, but thebest date?That’s something for other women, she seems to think. Not for Jillian Pierce.

I wish I had something smooth and aloof to say, because smooth and aloof is the only mode of operation that keeps this from spiraling even further out of control than it already has. But that shit went out the window a long time ago. Right about the same time I came inherwindow. Pun intended.

So instead of smooth and aloof, I just give her the truth:

“Mine, too.”

Jillian grins. It’s fleeting, but fuck, is it beautiful.

Then she grabs my hand and drags me back through the curtain into the chaos.

I lose track after that. Not of her—never of her. I could find Jillian in a windowless room with my eyes sewn shut; the pull of her is gravitational. But I lose track of everything else that ought to matter. The assignment. The article. The kill order and Lukas’s ultimatum looming over our heads. Afon, the body in the folding chair in Brooklyn… All of it dissolves the moment she tightens her fingers around mine and pulls me toward the next room.

The mask hides half her face from me, but the grin remains. I can see that, her pearly teeth in the dark, and then her wide, surprised, delighted eyes when we stumble down a hall and emerge into a fog-choked ballroom.

As we find a place to watch along the wall, one thought runs through my head on endless legs:

I could do this every day for the rest of my fucking life.

In the center of the ballroom is a bed. It’s a four-poster draped in dark linen with a single lamp burning amber in the corner. The pinpoint spotlights and the swirling smoke make the whole space seem smaller than it is, borderline claustrophobic. Around us, the audience has formed a loose circle along the walls. Their white masks float in the gloom like a jury of the dead.

Two actors occupy the center. One is asleep. He lies on the bed with his arms at his sides, chest rising and falling gently. The other stands over him. The standing man is shirtless, his torso gleaming with sweat or oil, and in the half-light, his musculature looks carved from rock. He stares down at the sleeping man withan expression I recognize immediately, because I wore it myself in a Brooklyn alleyway just a few nights ago.

It’s not just anger, though it’s partly that.

It’s not just hatred, though it’s partly that, too.

It’s not bloodlust, or fear, or psychopathy.

It’sresignation.

Acceptance that what happens next is what was always fated to happen.

Then, with a long, dragged-out sigh, the standing man places both hands around the sleeper’s throat and starts to choke.

I know what happens next because I know the play. Duncan dies in his bed at the hands of a man he trusted. Macbeth murders his king because someone he loved told him it was necessary, and because power makes parasites of us all.

The hands tighten. The sleeping man’s body jerks, once, twice, and then goes still. The killer holds on for much longer than necessary, like he recognizes that letting go means the sin is truly committed. Eventually, though, he releases his grip and steps back to examine what he’s done. His fingers are spread wide, trembling. It’s as though the dead man’s throat left invisible burns on his palms.

Around me, the audience watches without breathing. Jillian’s hand is clamped around mine so tight I can feel the individual bones of her fingers grinding against my knuckles. She’s riveted. Leaning forward on her toes, her lips parted beneath the white mask, completely consumed by the performance.

But me? I’m not here.

I am not watching the performance anymore.

I’m seeing my father’s kitchen. Crushed pills. Applesauce. A boy in a closet.

I’m seeing a piss-soaked alley in Williamsburg and a stranger zip-tied to a folding chair with a hole between his eyebrows.