Page 157 of Boardroom Mask

“It’s fine.” He cuts me off fast. “All good. Water under the bridge.” His free hand fidgets with his keys, jingling them against his thigh. “I should, uh… Yeah. Trash. Gotta take this down.”

“Right. Of course.”

He turns toward the stairwell, trash bag swinging. Then he stops. His shoulders do this little hitch, like he’s arguing with himself about whether to say the next thing.

“Hey, Jillian?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes are fixed carefully on the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall between our doors, like he won’t be able to voice his thoughts if he’s looking me in the eye. “That, uh… that guy,” he says carefully. “Is he still… around?”

I grip the plaque tighter against my hip. “No,” I say sadly. “He’s gone.”

“And he’s not…?”

“Coming back?” I shake my head, my dangly earrings flopping side to side. “No. I think it’s safe to say he’s never coming back.”

Elliot exhales in obvious relief. “Right. Cool. Yeah. Good.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing well. You look… you look really pretty in that dress.”

He gives me one last look, and then turns and scurries down the hall toward the trash chute. I stand there for one more second, wallowing in the harsh, specific pain of getting exactly what you deserve. Then I sigh and trudge into my apartment.

I lock the door behind me. Chain, deadbolt, knob. New habit. Every single time I do this, I consider leaving it open. Just to see what might happen. And every single time, I throw all the locks and check them twice.

I set the plaque on the mantel. Then I pick up the aqua envelope from where it’s been sitting on the coffee table for weeks now and lean it against the plaque so they’re side by side.Excellence in Investigative Journalismand a letter from Briarwood Family Services. The two defining artifacts of my life, hanging out together on a dusty shelf.

I change into pajama shorts and a ratty T-shirt and plug my phone in on the nightstand. Then, while it starts to charge, I open Google and tap on the alerts I set up three weeks ago. The results load fast.

Page Sixclaims he was sighted at a restaurant in Monaco with some whiz kid tech investor.Daily Mailputs him on a yacht off the coast of Antibes. A business blog says he’s been spotted in Nice hobnobbing with the gorgeous princess of some small European country I’ve never heard of.

Monaco, Montenegro, the south of France—it doesn’t really make a difference in the end, does it? Might as well be Mars. What I told Elliot is beyond doubt: Kir is never coming back.

I put the phone face-down on the nightstand and pull the covers up to my chin. The bedroom remains lit by the lamp on the dresser that I leave on every night, same as always. I squint up at the air vent and see the familiar red light, but it doesn’t comfort me anymore. It may or may not be filming, but there’s no one on the other end of the broadcast. Nobody’s watching me anymore. I’m alone now.

And like Kir said…

… maybe it’s better that way.

I close my eyes and try to sleep.

67

JILLIAN

SIX MONTHS LATER

“There you are, standing right in front of me / All this fear falls away to leave me naked”

— “Signal Fire” by Snow Patrol

The door cracks open. Rae’s face appears in the gap, eyes already glassy with unshed tears. “Okay. I’m ready.”

I slip inside and close the door behind me. Her wedding dress is hanging from a hook on the wardrobe, ivory silk with a low back that’s going to make Lukas lose his whole damn mind. Rae stands in the middle of the room in a white slip and bare feet, hands clasped in front of her stomach.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” I tell her.

“That’s because Iamabout to faint.”

“Please don’t,” I beg. “I don’t want to have to carry you down those stairs.”