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"I don't want to," I say, cutting him off. "I don't want to imagine it. Please, stop."

The room starts spinning, and I drop my head in my hands. Did he know all of this would happen? Did he know they'd call the police and shut down the restaurant?

I take my phone out of my locker and leave through the back, checking my messages as I cross the parking lot.

ZOEY Hey! What the hell happened at the restaurant? I tried to show up for work, but the police wouldn't let me through, and one of the regulars said they found an actual FINGER in the soup.

Yeah, that's pretty much what happened.

ZOEY Holy shit! What are we supposed to do now?

I don't know. The restaurant is shut down.

ZOEY So, did you serve the finger soup? Who ate it? Did they actually eat it?

It was Travis, and I don't know who the guy was, but he spit it onto his wife's plate.

ZOEY Damn. I guess we should start looking for jobs.

Yeah. Easy for her to say—not everyone will hire someone with a fake identity.

ZOEY What happened to you last night, anyway?

ZOEY Did they catch you?

ZOEY ...Was it hot?

No, they didn't, and I just went home. I don't want to talk about them anymore, okay? Don't mention it to anyone—the whole thing was weird.

ZOEY Okay, well…let me know if you hear anything.

I stuff my phone back into my bag and climb the stairs, receiving another message as I step into my apartment.

UNKNOWN Nice work. Meet me at this shithole called Spades at eight. Wear the slutty skirt.

At the bar? In public?

"Fuck…"

I toss the phone onto the bed.

The small sports bar at the far end of our little downtown is dark and quiet. A thick cloud of smoke hangs in the air, burning my eyes as I scan the space. It's also pretty empty right now, save for a few people playing pool in the far back corner. I swallow hard, thinking maybe Silas and Tate aren't here, unsure if that would be better or worse.

Eventually, I spot these newer versions of Tate and Silas—one covered in tattoos, the other with a beard and wearing thick black-rimmed glasses with a hoodie pulled over his head—in a high-backed booth on the opposite side of the room.

"You're late," Tate says.

"No, I'm not."

"It's 8:03. You should sit by me."

When I sit at the very edge of the booth, Silas chuckles.

"Come on over here. I'm not going to bite," Tate says.

I roll my eyes and slide over a few more inches.

"Hi, baby," Silas says.