“And in the dark / I can hear your heartbeat”

— “Cosmic Love” by Florence + The Machine

To say my stomach drops doesn’t even begin to cover it. It passes right out of me and deeper. The floor might as well not exist anymore. I’m falling through it, through the building, through the earth itself, and there’s nothing to grab onto as I hurtle down, down, down into the void.

I broke into your apartment to kill you.

Those words all make sense individually, but when you add them up, you just get a wordless scream instead of a cohesive sense of understanding. Things like that can only make sense in the abstract.

This is not abstract at all.

When there’s a man who smells like smoke and fire stroking your cheek with a gloved finger, kneeling in front of you with an aura of solemn melancholy surrounding him, things feel very real indeed.

My mouth is open but empty and useless, no matter how hard I try to say something, anything. He just kneels there and watches. Patient, like he’s giving me time to catch up to what he said.

But the choice of how to respond is taken away from me when a sound interrupts us.

A knock on the door.

It’s three tentative raps, followed by a muffled voice from the hallway. “Hey, Jillian…? You okay? I heard a noise.”

I recognize it right away. It’s Elliot Wilkinson, my nice but nosy neighbor from down the hall. He’s like a shy little puppy dog transformed into a human being and is still getting the hang of this whole “how to be a grown-up” thing. He tried to tell me to call him “El,” when we first met, then sheepishly admitted that he’d made the nickname up and no one ever calls him that. He brought me cookies when I moved in, insists on delivering my mail up to my apartment himself, and has mustered up the courage on a handful of occasions to gaze up at me with those big, soulful golden retriever eyes and ask if I maybe, perhaps, if I’m free and in the mood, and of course he’d pay for it, his treat, really, no he insists, but like, yeah, would I want to get a drink or a bite to eat or perhaps see a movie together sometime?

I’ve gently, repeatedly, and unmistakably declined, but Elliot, bless his soul, seems determined to keep on trying.

Unfortunately, he’s picked a really bad time to take another swing.

He’s no white knight. I know without even having to think about it that the Masked Man in my apartment would snuff Elliot out in the blink of an eye, like crushing a little bug beneath the heel of his boot.

This is all too much. I’m in a bad enough situation as it is, but if an innocent guy like Elliot gets murdered right along with me, then I… I…

Oh, God, the world is starting to swim, getting murky and indistinct around the edges, I feel my chin lolling toward my chest, my breath stuttering, as I—as I⁠—

No. No. I’m not going to faint. I’m not going to spiral. Because if I don’t handle this perfectly, Elliot and I are both going to die. That thought snaps me into focus faster than anything else could.

“Jillian?” Elliot calls again. “Hey, looks like your lights are out. Mine, too, actually—I think the whole floor blew. Want me to call the super?”

Go away, I think desperately, trying to beam my thoughts in his direction. Please, please, please just go away.

“Answer him,” the intruder murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it.

I swallow. My throat is dry and tight. “I’m—I’m fine, Elliot!” I push the words out and try to sound normal. “It’s just the breaker. I’ve got it.”

“You sure? I’ve got a flashlight. I could come in and⁠—”

“No!” Too fast, dammit! I’m making it totally obvious that I’m in distress. I dial it back. “No, really. I’m good. I was already in bed. Thanks, though.”

I can picture him out there, shuffling from foot to foot like an awkward pigeon, debating whether to push it. Elliot is a pusher. Not in a threatening way, though. More in a Let me carry your groceries for you even though you said no over and over again way.

Any other night, it would just be mildly irritating.

Tonight, it could get him fucking killed.

“Okay, well…” Elliot trails off. But I still hear him breathing on the other side of the door. Then he clears his throat. “Look, Jillian, it—it wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t just, y’know, see you. Like, not in a weird way or anything. Just to make sure everything’s okay. My mom raised me to be a gentleman, and she’d kill me if she found out I just walked away when a lady might need help.”

Oh, Elliot. Elliot, you sweet, stupid, wonderful idiot.

A hand closes around my upper arm. The Masked Man hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing, and for a disorienting second, my socked feet dangle before they find the floor. Gently, he pushes me toward the door with one firm shove between my shoulder blades that sends me lurching forward through the pitch-black apartment. I stumble, arms pinwheeling, bare feet slapping against the cold hardwood. My shin clips the corner of the coffee table and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.

I come to a stop a foot from the door. The peephole is a tiny circle of dull light at eye level, and beyond it, Elliot is still out there.

Fuck me.

Fuck him.

Fuck us both.

I reach for the doorknob, but before I find it in the darkness, I sense cinnamon—then heat—then something hard and cold presses into the small of my back. It’s a metallic point, right against my spine, just above the waistband of my pajama pants. The shape is unmistakable.

I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before, but my body knows exactly what it is.

The pressure holds for a few seconds, long enough to make the point. Then it drags around the curve of my hip, lingering in the two inches of belly exposed beneath the cropped hem of my hoodie, as The Masked Man steps sideways, out of the door’s sightline.

“Open it,” he breathes from the corner. “Smile. Make him go away.”

My hand finds the doorknob. I grip it. My palm is slick with sweat and I have to twist twice before it catches.

I crack the door open six inches, just enough to show half my face and one shoulder. Elliot is standing in the hallway with a flashlight in one hand and a small stack of envelopes in the other. He’s wearing a too-big Knicks jersey and plaid pajama pants, and his sandy hair is sticking up on one side.

“Hey!” He smiles when he sees me. “There you are. I was getting worried.”

“Nope. All good. Just me and the eternal, gasping darkness.” I stretch my mouth into what I hope passes for a relaxed grin. It feels like I’m prying my face apart.

“Oh, totally. Yeah. Cool, cool.” He combs a hand through his cowlick. “So, uh, these came for you today.” He holds up the envelopes. “They were in the lobby and I figured, y’know, since I was coming up anyway…”

“Elliot, you know you didn’t have to do that.”

“No, I know, I know. I just, like, I was already down there grabbing mine, and I saw yours sitting in the box, and I thought, hey, might as well save you a trip.”

“That’s really sweet. Thank you.” I reach through the gap and take the mail from him. My hand is very obviously trembling, so I press the envelopes against my thigh to hide it. “Well, I should probably⁠—”

“So how was your day?” he asks, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. He’s doing that thing he does where he tries to look casual but his whole body radiates nervous energy. “Busy at the paper?”

“Er, yeah. Super busy. You know how it is.”

“Totally, totally. I had a crazy day, too, actually. We had this server outage at work and my boss was freaking out, and I had to—well, it’s kind of a long story. IT stuff. Boring, probably.”

“I’m sure it’s not boring.”

“It’s suuuper boring.” He laughs, a short, breathy thing. “But, um, hey, speaking of—I mean, not speaking of, that’s a weird transition—but I was wondering…”

He stutters his way into silence. His free hand goes to rub at the back of his neck and stays there.

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 where The 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 mail is 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.”

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