The next time you go to work there's no blood pool on the floor of the kitchen: only flour and bits of egg shell where Megan was too excited separating egg yolks. You wonder if you imagined the whole thing. The finished roulade says otherwise.

You're quiet for the rest of your shift, something that concerns your coworkers. You don't know what to say to them, so you lie through your teeth and tell them you're just tired.

Well, it's not completely a lie.

You don't know how to explain to them that yesterday you saw a dead body right where they're making cake batter. Even if you did, you have no proof— to the point where even you are beginning to doubt what you saw. Crazy doesn't run in your family as far as you know, but hell if you're not a rebel.

You're dead on your feet by the time you clock out, tossing your apron in the hamper. You bust through the double doors leading to the body of the restaurant and freeze in your tracks.

He's there. Or at least, you think he is. It's too dark to really tell. Blond hair curls around him like a halo, dim light bouncing off high cheekbones. He's sitting in a corner booth with a man whose back is to you. There's a glass of wine so dark it looks like blood in his hand.

Almost like he can sense you, the murderer's eyes lock onto yours. It's him. They're just as cold as you remember, lit only with a spark of dangerous curiosity. A chill runs down your spine so violently you convulse. You force your frozen limbs to move, hurrying through the restaurant. You can feel his eyes burning into your back.

You make it all the way back to your car, keys shaking in your hand. The keys are halfway in the lock when you're slammed against the door, back pressing into the glass.

It's him.

You suck in a terrified breath and look at him through blown pupils.

His head tilts as he observes you. He reminds you of a fox stalking his prey.

You don't enjoy feeling like a rabbit.

"You remember me, don't you?" He asks flatly.

You nod violently, too terrified to speak.

"You didn't follow my instructions," he says flatly. He says it like it isn't a question, but the way his fingers anchor themselves in your flesh convince you otherwise.

"I did— I did, I swear! I didn't tell anyone what happened."

His lip curls. He's so close you bet he can see the reflection of himself in your terrified eyes. He must see something else there because he draws back.

"You really mean that, don't you?"

You nod frantically.

"Well," he says thoughtfully, "Only one way to check."

He leans in close again; so close that you think he's going to kiss you. Dread drops in your stomach and you feel like you're going to throw up. You're shaking so violently you can barely stand. You're almost relieved when instead he brushes your hair to the side and leans in towards your neck.

You're petrified with fear as he lingers there, wondering what he's going to do. You don't want to wait long.

Pain erupts at the juncture of your shoulder. You'd scream if it wasn't for his hand clamping your mouth shut. Less than a second after it starts, he darts away hissing and you're left with a burning agony in your neck. You've never felt anything like this before: not when you broke your arm when you were nine, not when you had the stomach flu for a month straight. It's like dizzy fire, burning through your veins.

"Vervain," he says, voice rough. He's glaring at you like he's the one that's hurt.

"What are you even talking about?" Your voice progressively gets higher. Your hand is slick with blood where your desperately trying to tamp down the bleeding.

"You have no idea, do you?" He comments. His eyes pierce you almost as deeply as his teeth. "I wonder who's protecting you."

You feel panic constricting your throat, your head growing light. The only reason you're still standing is the fact you're leaning up against the car.

"I don't know," you sob against your will. You wonder if you'll make it out of this alive.

He moves towards you a touch too fast— a touch too sharp and a frightened sound exits your lips. He looks at you impatiently.

"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you."

You eye him warily. "You already did."

"Barely, it'll heal on its own. You're in no danger of dying," he says cryptically, "Now tell me, who knows about what you saw?"

You catch a sob in your throat. "No one, I already told you!"

You're afraid he's not going to believe you and murder you here in this dimly lit parking lot. You haven't given your death much thought before, but the looming possibility terrifies you. You try to force yourself to breathe, sucking cold air in through your nose. The man just watches you, eyes blank. He doesn't try to approach you, he just stays silent, looking at you in that peculiar way of his.

"You're telling the truth," he realizes, gazing at you thoughtfully. You think it's rhetorical, but you don't think you could respond if it wasn't. "Why did you not say anything about what happened the other night?" He eventually asks, "You were under no compulsion to."

"I… I don't know." You can tell by the press of his mouth that he doesn't like your answer. He takes a step toward you and you yelp, but he doesn't come any closer.

"You step over a deadman to escape from a murderer and none of your instincts propel you to report it to anyone?" He scoffs at your silence. "I can't tell whether you're a coward or lack any sort of self preservation."

You bristle, struck by the heat of courage that doesn't come naturally to you. "Wouldn't you have killed me tonight if I had told anyone? I'd call that self preservation."

He laughs, low and short. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"Go home."

You don't waste time jamming your keys in the lock on your car. He stands there, watching you, as you peel away in the dark parking lot. Your blood is smeared on the driver's side window. You should go to the hospital, you know, but you don't. You don't want to deal with the thousand dollar price tag that comes along with that. You have some bandages at home, you muse. And some antibiotics.

Yeah, you think as you slide through another stop sign, you'll be fine.

You get home miraculously in one piece. The only thing propelling you up the steps to your front porch is sheer willpower at this point. You fumble with the keys to your house, forgetting to lock your car. The agony in your neck has faded to a dull throb. Idly, you hope you haven't lost too much blood. You want nothing more than to go to sleep.

You suspect if you do that now, you won't wake up.

You stumble your way into the bathroom and open up the cabinet. Blinking, you try to clear your vision. The only reason you're able to identify your antibiotics is by the shape of the bottle. You take one and two Tylenol for good measure. It's hard to clean the wound on your neck at this angle, but you do it to the best of your ability and tape it back up with ace bandages. Eyes bleary, you manage to find your way and collapse on the bed. The spinning ceiling exacerbates your nausea and you close your eyes. You really hope you wake up tomorrow.

If you die, you're going to haunt that motherfucker.

Strangely, the thought sends you to sleep.