Landon looks up, sees her, and nods in greeting. She says something I can’t hear, and he smiles, uncertain. He’s not sure of the etiquette here; he’s not even sure he’s supposed to answer. She leans in, says something softer, and Landon’s smile shifts—less guarded, more real. He shakes her hand, then bows his head and drifts away, as if that’s the end of the script.
He’s trying to blend, but everything about him stands out. The way he moves, the way he looks at people instead of over them, even the way he breathes. He doesn’t know how to be invisible in a room full of monsters. Which is probably why he’s alive.
It doesn’t help that he’s tall and lanky, a bit clumsy in his gait, but there’s something endearing about the way he looks like a disheveled nerd. Not usually my type, but he walked into the lion’s den with no sense of self preservation and I find that rather…
Cute.
I drain the glass, though I haven’t tasted a thing. I consider how best to approach: I could have Security intercept him at the coat check and disappear him into the sub-basement for the usual interrogation. I could invite him up to the mezzanine and see if he’s brave enough to have a conversation with me. Or I could simply watch, see what he does when left to his own devices, like a rat in a new maze.
I prefer the last option. I’ve always liked seeing how people behave when they think no one is recording.
He circles the room, not like a vulture, but like someone trying to memorize every detail before he’s kicked out. He stops once at the buffet, considers a truffled amuse-bouche, then sets it back on the tray untouched. There’s nothing performative about it. He checks his phone, types a quick note, then pockets it.
I decide to test him.
I slip from the dais, gliding into the crowd. My movements are calculated to draw attention without seeming to: a hand laid gently on a shoulder, a lingering look at someone’s mask, a compliment here, a promise there. The current shifts around me, and within a minute Landon is aware of me. I see it in the way his spine straightens, in the way he tries to move perpendicular to my path instead of away. Smart.
I close the distance and stand beside him at the silent auction table. Up close, he smells like generic drugstore soap and anxiety. His tie is the wrong shade of blue, but it makes his eyes pop. I reach past him, pick up the description card for the first-edition Dostoevsky, and say, “It’s not actually a first printing, you know. The paper’s too clean. Probably a restoration.”
He glances at me, surprised. “Oh. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even touched a first edition before.”
I watch him process the interaction, cataloguing every angle of the mask, the way the eyeholes cut sharp around my lashes, the dark curled hair visible above the brow. He recognizes me, or at least recognizes I’m not a regular attendee.
He says, “Do youwork here?”
It almost makes me laugh. “No. You?”
He smiles, small and crooked. “Got an invite, not sure why. This isn’t my usual jaunt.”
I glance at his hands, which are perfectly clean but ink-stained near the cuticle of his left thumb. “Do you like puzzles?”
He looks at the chess set, then back at me. “I like solving them. I hate the part where you realize you’re just a piece on someone else’s board.”
He’s sharper than I expected. I enjoy it. “A dangerous philosophy.”
He shrugs, awkward. “Probably why I don’t get invited to places like this very often.”
He doesn’t know how true that is. I tilt my head, watching him. “What would you do if you found out you were on the wrong side of the puzzle?”
He says, “I guess I’d hope the person holding the box is at least a little honest.” Then he glances away, as if embarrassed at his own earnestness.
There is nothing in this room as genuine as that. It’s almost unsettling.
I thank him for the company, and drift away, giving him the illusion of safety. I circle the ballroom, noting where he moves, who he speaks to, what he avoids. He’s not a liability; he’s an outlier, a variable I don’t fully understand.
I decide I want to keep watching him.
The half-masked man from before finds me near the windows. “Should we move on him now?” he says.
I shake my head. “No. Let him have tonight. I’ll handle it personally. After all, it is Valentine’s Eve and it would be uncouth to dispatch someone on such a lovely day.”
He’s surprised. “If you’re sure—”
“I’m sure.” My voice is soft, but there’s no room for error in it. He nods and fades back into the crowd.
I return to my post, glass full again, eyes fixed on the man who shouldn’t be here.
If he’s smart, he’ll leave before midnight. If he’s interesting, he won’t.
