“Because my financial advisor said I needed extra income to support my ‘champagne tastes on a beer budget lifestyle,’ and I figured what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you. Plus, he was supposed to be some kind of ghost tenant: barely there, super quiet, pays in cash. I didn’t think you’d ever run into him!”
Of course Jasper has a financial advisor.
I’m over here celebrating when my credit card payment goes through without getting declined, and he’s casually investing in Milanese back-breakers and mystery subletters. My emergency fund is a twenty-dollar bill folded behind my driver’s license and the hope that I don’t catch the flu.
A prickle runs up my spine, and sure enough, Stephanie’s staring from across the office, already filing this away for her next gossip binge. Behind her, through the glass, Dave hunches in his office, probably scheduling my next performance review.
“Jas, I really need to—” My words die in my throat.
Because walking through the bank’s front doors, moving with the kind of fluid confidence that makes everyone else look like they’re walking through molasses, is him.
Black coat. Black fedora pulled low. Dark sunglasses that he never removes, not once, not even indoors. He moves like he owns the place, like everyone else is just furniture he has to navigate around.
And he’s heading straight for my desk, just like he always does.
Oh no. Not today. Please, Universe, not today.
Every third Tuesday of the month, like clockwork. Always the same routine. Always deposits exactly $47,832.19. Never a dollar more, never a penny less. Always cash. Always in a black leather briefcase that looks expensive enough to buy a small car.
He never makes small talk. Never smiles. Barely speaks except to confirm the transaction. Just slides the briefcase across my desk, watches me count every bill with those hidden eyes, then disappears until the next month.
I’ve been calling him “Mr. Mystery” in my head because he never uses the same name twice on the deposit slips. Sometimes it’s “J. Smith.” Sometimes “A. Johnson.” Once, memorably, “B. Wayne,” which made me wonder if he was fucking with me.
Of all the days, of all the mornings, why now?
He’s wearing a black suit that’s clearly not off-the-rack, and he’s scanning the room like he’s cataloging every exit, every person, every potential threat.
His gaze lands on me.
Even from across the room, even crouched behind my computer like a desk gremlin, I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
“Mary? Mary, are you having a stroke? You’re making weird breathing noises.”
“I have to go,” I whisper into the phone, my voice barely functional.
“Wait, don’t hang up! We need to talk about—”
I end the call and immediately pretend to be very, very interested in my computer screen. Maybe if I don’t look at him, he’ll disappear. Maybe this is all an elaborate hallucination brought on by excessive shame and workplace stress.
But when I risk a glance up, he’s still there.
And he’s walking toward my desk.
I try to sit up straight and look professional, but I’m pretty sure I look like someone who just got caught hiding under their desk talking on the phone when they should be working.
He stops in front of my desk, and even through the sunglasses, I can sense something different about him today. He’s looking around the bank more than usual; quick, nervous glances toward the exits, the security cameras, the other customers. His hands are fidgeting with the briefcase handle.
Mr. Mystery is never fidgety. Mr. Mystery is always ice-cold calm.
But today, something has him rattled.
“Good morning,” I manage, trying to sound professional despite the fact that I’ve just been on the phone with Jasper, and my life is currently imploding.
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just keeps scanning the room like he’s expecting trouble to walk through the door at any second.
Finally, he sets the briefcase on my desk with more force than usual. The sound echoes loudly, making me jump slightly.
