Chapter 24
JILLIAN
“Holy water / Cannot help you now / See, I’ve come to burn / Your kingdom down”
— “Seven Devils” by Florence + the Machine
Vera’s voice reaches me from somewhere far away. “Ms. Pierce…? Are you alright? You look—”
“I’m fine,” I force myself to say, even though “fine” and I currently occupy different universes. “Actually, I just— I have to go. I’ll come back another time.”
“Are you sure? I can get you some water, or—”
“No. Thank you. I’m good. I’ll email you.”
I turn around and walk toward the revolving door. My legs feel wrong, like they belong to someone else and I’m just borrowing them. I push through the door and the cold November air chills me to the bone, but I keep walking. I don’t dare look back to check if Kir saw me.
I make it half a block before I have to take a brief detour.
I grab the rim of a metal trash can on the corner and vomit. It’s mostly coffee and bile. A woman walking a Pomeranian gives me a wide berth, for which I don’t blame her. I’d give me a wide berth right now, too.
Because I am straight-up spiraling.
Kir Lazarev is the Masked Man. The Masked Man is Kir. Kir. Mask. Kir. Man. All one and the same.
I spit into the trash can and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My brain is trying to process too many things at once and ends up processing none of them.
Every conversation I’ve had with him is rewinding in my head now, playing back at double speed.
What did I say? What did I tell him? I think about when he asked me what I knew about the Lazarevs and I laid out my cards because I thought I was being clever.
I told him about Ochoa. I told him about the ME’s office.
I told him about the bones. I told him I knew his boss was connected to the family.
His boss? What a joke! He is the boss! He is the family!
And then all those nights afterward. What did I say in bed? What might I have mumbled while half-crazed or half-asleep?
I can’t remember. That’s the worst part. I can’t separate what I said out loud from what I only thought.
And if he finds out I know who he is—if he even suspects it…
I don’t finish that thought. I don’t need to. We all know what would happen then: The tiny little gray space we’ve been playing in would vanish in a puff of smoke, and it would be my bones getting buried deep in some anonymous construction site.
The walk home is a half-remembered blur. One second, I’m on Sixth Avenue, and the next, I’m turning my key in my lock, stepping inside, shutting the door behind me.
The apartment is empty, window closed and locked. No smell of cinnamon, thank the Lord.
I drop my bag by the door and sit down at the kitchen table. I don’t turn on the TV or open my laptop or even pour myself a badly-needed drink. I just sit.
Because I know something beyond any doubt: He’ll come tonight.
And when he does, I won’t need the Taser. I won’t have to fire anything or swing anything or run. I don’t need a weapon you can hold in your hand. I have something better.
I have his name.
And tonight, when he climbs through that window expecting the same desperate, broken girl on her knees, I’m going to look him dead in the face and say five simple little words:
The tables have turned, motherfucker.