Page 36 of Boardroom Mask

“That’s not a crime!” I cry out.

“It is to me.”

“Then you’re delusional.”

“Almost certainly.” He tilts his head. “But he won’t do it again, will he? He understands now.”

I don’t realize he’s baiting me until I’ve already taken it hook, line, and sinker. “Understandswhat?”

“That he doesn’t have a chance with you. That no one does. Except for me.” His mouth spreads in a twisted grin. “I’m your only hunter from now on, little fox.”

I jump up, my chair screeching as it’s thrust backwards. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

“You’re angry,” the Masked Man notes.

I gather up two tufts of my hair in my hands, milliseconds away from ripping it all out. “Do you blame me?!”

He frowns, almost as if he’s confused by my reaction. “I told you not to go. You didn’t listen, so you had to be punished. At least I was restrained.”

“That was ‘restrained’? You pretty much caved his face in! What part of hospitalizing an innocent man is ‘restrained’?!”

“You should see me when I’m not.”

I shake my head vehemently. “Hard pass. The hardest of passes.”

He scrutinizes me as I sink slowly back onto my chair and clamp my shaking hands between my knees so he can’t see me tremble. “I did warn you,” he sighs. “I told you not to go out with him. I was very clear.”

“You don’t get to tell me who I have dinner with.”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“And we’llkeephaving it,” I hiss, “until you get the message through your thick, masked skull.”

“I admire your persistence.”

“And I find yours terrifying. So we’re even.”

“Well,” he replies, “then I’d say everything is going according to plan.” Then something turns in his posture. The casual sprawl tightens as he plants both feet flat on the floor and puts his forearms on the table. “Alright,” he says. “This has been fun, but it’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh, good,” I retort. “I was worried you only liked me for the sparkling conversation.”

He ignores that. “Tell me what you know about the Lazarevs.”

I keep my face neutral. “What about them?”

He wags a scolding finger at me. “Don’t play dumb. You’re too smart for it and it insults both of us.” He taps that same finger once on the tabletop. “You’re working a story. I want to know what you have.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know how much trouble you’re in.”

“From who? You?”

“No. From people who make me look like a Boy Scout.”

I study him. He’s not joking. The amused edge from before is completely gone. “You first,” I prod. “You tell me who sent you to kill me, and I’ll tell you what I’m working on.”

“That’s not how this works.”