"You're sure you can finish the pastry cart?" Kate asks, but she's already untying her apron and tossing it in the hamper.
"Don't pretend to care," you say, "You're leaving me."
She laughs. "Not my fault my shift is over, baby girl." She unbuttons her chef's coat and tosses it aside.
"See you tomorrow, Kate," you say, waving with a flour covered hand.
"Good luck with the plating."
You wave her off. "Yeah, yeah."
When Kate leaves, it's just you in the kitchen. It's late and the rest of the staff has gone home. It's Sunday after the restaurant is closed, and you can't even hear the general noise of families eating dinner. It's eerie. The walls seem to crowd you. You aren't often left alone like this, but your manager is home sick with the flu. The downside of having children, you guess.
The silence starts to get to you, so you put in your headphones
You're almost done rolling the roulade for tomorrow when you hear a loud crash through the tinny music playing from your headphones. You jump, catching the scream before it has a chance to escape your throat. Pausing your music, you listen intently for another sound. You're about to press play when you hear something else. Voices. They don't sound too happy. The sound is still too indistinct for you to understand what they're saying, but you don't need to hear their words in order to hear the underlying anger.
Fuck, you think, are you being robbed? Not your problem, your boss can take it.
Something crashes and it sounds like it happened right next to your ear.
Well, you correct yourself belatedly, it's your problem if you get murdered in the middle of a robbery.
Your eyes dart to the only door to the kitchen. There's no way out except through the front of the building. No escape for you, it seems. The voices get louder and you lose any inclination towards trying to escape. They're too close. You frantically search for somewhere to hide. Your eyes pause on the freezer and think better of it. (You're trying to avoid a horror movie ending of dying trapped in a sub-zero box). You turn to the the dry ingredient closet. Would they find you there? You don't have a weapon. You cast a nervous look towards the door, attention catching on the large knife in the kitchen block.
Well, you think anxiously, it couldn't fucking hurt.
You grab it and scurry to the pantry, tucking yourself behind bags of flour. And not a moment too soon.
The kitchen door bangs open and you can hear the shouting reverberating in your skull. You clutch the knife tighter in your hand, grip slippery with anxiety.
"—What IS IT with you and this stupid little town? Don't you have better things to do than antagonize a seventeen year old girl?" A man yells.
"Don't you have better things to do than drag me into a restaurant to express your grievances? I frankly have better things to do with my time than hear a list of every time I've wronged pretty little Elena."
You shiver a little at the second man's voice. It sounds low and deadly: cold compared to the brash anger in the other man's voice. You shift a little in discomfort against the bags of flour, knife scraping softly against the iron shelves. For a moment, both men pause.
Dread drops in your stomach like a stone. There's no way they heard you moving, you're certain of that. But it doesn't stop the seed of doubt from planting itself in you. You almost breathe a sigh of relief when they continue arguing.
"Elena's not the only one you've wronged. What about me?" The voice shouts. He sounds almost whiny. "You took my brother away from me, it's only fair if I do the same thing. I wonder what Rebekah will do when-"
There's a snap and then dead silence. Oh god. The only thing you can hear in the pitch black closet is the sound of your blood in your ears. They don't know you're in here, you reassure yourself. They can't. Belatedly, you remember the unfinished roulade, the flour coating the floor. White footprints. Your knuckles blanch on the knife handle.
You stifle a soft sound in your throat when you hear careful footsteps on the tile floor, getting closer to your hiding spot.
Please don't, you beg internally.
Fate obviously wasn't listening to you, and hasn't been for a while.
The door creaks open on its hinges and you hold your breath. The bright light filters in. All you can see is a dark outline of a man.
"I know you're in here," he says. His voice is low and sends a shiver up your spine. "I can hear your heart beating like a rabbit."
Your heart has a palpitation at that and he laughs.
"There's no need to hide," he says, bending down, "I won't hurt you." Faster than you can comprehend, he rips the bag of flour covering you away and tosses it to the side.
"Well, hello there," he says. He leans down in a slow, creeping motion, grinning wide with white teeth. He doesn't look like any armed robber that you've ever seen. His blond curls and flat eyes make him unsettlingly… pretty for a criminal. He's not even wearing a mask.
You've heard that's a bad thing, you think, if they let you see their face.
His eyes drift down and catch on the gleam of the knife in your hand. You forgot it was there.
"What do we have here?" He asks, taking your wrist in his grasp, "Going to stab me, love?"
You could. Technically— physically, you know. He's not restraining you. You don't know how much strength it takes to cut through human flesh, but it can't be much harder than slicing a watermelon. You're trembling.
In reality, you can't do it. You drop the knife and it clatters to the ground, hands shaking with the idea of what you could've done. You're pathetic. The man's smile widens.
"Good girl."
He hauls you up by your wrists and a frightened noise escapes out of your throat. The pantry door is wide open and through it you catch sight of a dark-haired man lying on the floor, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. You feel bad for calling him whiny.
"Oh God."
The man's grip tightens around your wrists and he forces you to look him in the eye.
"Listen to me very carefully," he intones, "You're going to forget this happened. You came in, finished your tasks, and left at a normal time. No one ever came in."
"Yes sir," you squeak. It might be your imagination, but you think his grip slackens for a moment in surprise. He tilts his head and examines you. Distantly, you notice you're still shaking.
"Go."
"Yes sir." He releases you and you dark away just as quickly. You hover at the doorway of the pantry, unwilling to walk over the corpse in front of you.
"What now?" The annoyance in the man's voice is the encouragement you need to step over the deadman's head.
"I- I just…" Your eyes land on your abandoned roulade as you edge away from the irritated murderer. "I need to finish the roulade or my boss will be really mad at me."
For a moment, you think you're going to end up just like the corpse on the floor of the kitchen. You'd scold yourself if you didn't think you were currently going into shock. He stares at you with the dark, unfaltering look in his eyes before breaking into laughter.
"Don't worry about your pastries," he says as he edges towards you. He corners you against one of the tables just as effectively as a dog herding sheep. "Everything will be just as it should be when you return."
He's close enough you can smell his cologne, but you can't make yourself look any higher than the collar of his shirt.
"Thank you," you whisper.
There's another pause and you're too afraid to look up to see what's in his eyes.
"Now look at me."
You give an infinitesimal shake of your head. You don't think you can.
"Look at me," he growls, hand reaching up to grab your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. A cry escapes your lips— sounding pathetic even to your ears.
"Now here's what's going to happen: you're going to walk to your car and drive home." His pupils dilate when he talks in that slow voice. His eyes are blue, you realize. "You're going to go about your evening routine without sparing a thought for what happened tonight. If anyone asks, nothing strange has ever happened here. Do you understand?"
You nod quickly, but it isn't enough.
"Use your words."
You flush hotly. "I understand, sir."
"Now leave."
You stumble in your haste to get away from that place, keys shaking in your hand as you try to fit them into the lock of your car. You don't remember getting home, just the eerie darkness of the drive back and your total indifference to any posted speed limits.
You don't stop trembling until you fall asleep that night, wrapped in the safe confinements of your own house.