Page 14 of Boardroom Mask

I can feel the gun at my side. Not literally, not anymore, but in the way you feel a lit stove across a kitchen. I know exactly whereThe Masked Man is standing. I know what he’s holding and what he’ll do with it.

“Uh, yeah?” I prompt, because I need this conversation to end.

Elliot grins. “Would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? Like, Friday, maybe? There’s this new Thai place on Amsterdam that’s supposed to be really good. My treat, obviously. No pressure or anything. We could just, y’know, hang out. As neighbors. Or—or whatever.” His eyes are so hopeful it makes my chest ache.

“Elliot, that’s so nice of you to ask.”

“But?” He winces preemptively.

“I’ve got a, uh… a work thing Friday. Big deadline. Rain check?”

“Yeah! Yeah, no, of course. Rain check. Absolutely.” He nods about a dozen times too many. “Just let me know whenever you’re free. No rush. I’m always around.”

“Sounds good,” I say weakly. “I’ll let you know.”

He beams at me. “Awesome. Cool. Great.” He takes a step back, then stops. “Oh, and if you need help with the breaker, just knock. I’m right down the hall.”

“Will do. Night, Elliot.”

“Night, Jillian.”

He gives me a little wave with the flashlight, turns, and shuffles off down the dark hallway. I watch him go until I hear his door open and close.

I shut my door. Then I stand there with my forehead pressed against the wood and my hand still gripping the knob. The mailis crumpled against my thigh. My legs are shaking badly enough that I’m not sure how much longer they’ll hold me.

I did it. He’s safe. Elliot is safe.

Now, it’s just me and this demon in the dark again.

He’s right there, somewhere in the black gut of my apartment, watching me from behind that mask. I learn just how far away he isn’t when his voice snarls millimeters away from my ear.

“A date with that lost little puppy? I don’t fucking think so. You’re not going.”

6

JILLIAN

“I can see that you wanted me cold/You’re so bold while you’re watching me moan”

— “Drowning” by BANKS

I spin around to face him, my back flat against the door. The Fear isn’t gone, not exactly, but a more familiar and welcome emotion is joining it in the spotlight: black-eyed rage at the impudence of men.

Thatfeeling is a good ol’ friend of mine, and she gets plenty of exercise in the Year of Our Lord 2025, because men just keep insisting on being the fucking worst.

Even stalker men with violent psycho tendencies assume they get to dictate what women do.

I’m very sick of that bullshit.

“Uh, excuse me? You don’t get to decide who I have dinner with. You don’t get to decideanythingabout my life. You broke into my apartment, you threatened to kill me, and now, you’re—what? Jealous? OfElliot?”

“You think this is jealousy?” he asks in a baritone drawl. His breathing is slow, even, and controlled. Everything I’m not right now.

“I think a man who tells a woman she’s ‘not going’on a date she didn’t even say yes to has some pretty serious control issues, yeah. If the shoe fits, et cetera.”

When he doesn’t immediately reply, I start to wonder if I might’ve overstepped a little bit.

I feel him move. A shadow against shadows. He pushes closer, and closer, and I retreat and retreat, but there’s only a foot or two to go until I’m smeared against the door and he’s flush against me.