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I expect him to show up that night.

Every time I walk around a corner or close a door, I expect him to be there. Sometimes I swear I see the glowing red lines of his mask out of the corner of my eye, and I jump as I glance to the side, ready to do something drastic.

But he’s never there.

Part of me even considers calling him to demand to know what he’s doing or if he plans to show up again. But that part of me is clearly insane, because it’s one of the dumbest ideas I’ve ever had. Easily top ten, in fact.

I’m jumpy all night, always expecting him to just pop up from somewhere he shouldn’t or to rise out of the floor like some kind of demon.

And I’m definitely not disappointed when he doesn’t . I refuse to be anything but grateful that he’s possibly lost interest in me, or in bothering me at the very least.

It’s a good thing. I can get some damn peace and quiet and some real sleep on my newly washed sheets that smell like fabric softener, and under my comforter that’s still so warm from the dryer. I tell myself I’m fine, and that he’s probably off doing the thing I was so afraid he’d do to me.

Huxley is a killer .

I don’t want him anywhere near me—whether I’m asleep or awake—and I’ll tell myself that until I believe it, if I need to.

No matter how long it takes.

Sitting at my desk with my legs folded under me, I find myself distracted. Not that I’m too surprised by that, but it’s hard to get any extra work done when I’m too busy spinning my office chair in slow, lazy circles with my earbuds in.

“Yeah, Violet,” I sigh, as my boss continues to outline her newest set of concerns. “I’m sure your schedule isn’t overlapping. You’re going to be great.” Being a virtual assistant has really been a food job, for the most part. Sometimes, though, I feel more like a therapist or babysitter instead of the assistant I was hired to be.

Some days I really spend my time listening to any of my three clients rant about their personal problems instead of scheduling, emailing, or taking care of accounts and websites for them. Instead of drafting up press releases, I end up finding them the closest bar or the closest place to get the coffee they prefer.

“I’ve got it all outlined for you,” I go on absently. “Did you check the email I sent you earlier? I cc’d Aaron on it as well,” I add, naming her husband, who she prefers to keep involved in her day-to-day activities as a small beauty company owner.

“ I haven’t had time,” Violet admits guiltily from the other end of the phone. “ I umm…” she trails off, and I roll my eyes, knowing she’s going to hit me with another excuse. “ Could you maybe just take care of it? You know—the stupid details and the rest of the scheduling ?” she asks nervously, almost self-conscious about the request.

After all, this isn’t exactly part of my job, going by the guidelines she laid out for me when she hired me last year. But I’m also not the kind of person to tell her no or demand for her to hire someone else to do the other work she hadn’t thought to put in my contract.

She always gives me nice bonuses, and there are many worse bosses in this world than Violet.

“Yeah, I’ve got you,” I assure her, stopping my spinning so I’m facing my desk again. “I’ll just call you later when I have all the details sorted out?”

I hear the relief in her voice when she agrees, and know I’ll be getting about four emails with all the information I’m missing to do this for her. But again I remind myself there are so many worse jobs to have. When we hang up, I rest my chin on my hand, fingers tapping my mouse as I look through the documents I’ve already gone through. It might end up being a long day, given that this is only my first call out of six, but it could be worse.

That knowledge is what’ll get me through the day. As long as Patrice doesn’t come banging on my window wanting to discuss something or fine me for some imagined slight, my day could absolutely be worse.

I make it through, then finally sit back around nine pm with a groan and my head aching. I didn't mean to work so long, but given the fact this was my first day back since being in Florida and tomorrow is Saturday, meaning I’m off work, I just wanted to catch up with as much as I can. My back is sore and stiff, my neck hurts, and I feel like I’m eighty-two. When I push to my feet and my knees pop in disapproval, loudly enough that I’m sure the entire neighborhood can hear my crispy-crunchy joints.

“Gosh, you’re a catch, Kai,” I tell myself as I head into the kitchen. I’m not particularly hungry, but I grab a small container of strawberries I cleaned and cut up earlier, along with a cup of chocolate-flavored fruit dip. This is my new obsession, and it’s only the fact that strawberries go bad a bit quickly that’s saving my fridge from being stocked with a lifetime supply of berries and chocolate dip.

I don’t bother to get a drink, so I swallow a few Tylenol with the aid of a sip of water straight from the tap before snatching my food off of the counter to head for the patio door. It’s cold enough that I’m wearing a hoodie, and I wonder when Lexington will realize it’s spring , and therefore the weather should act accordingly instead of continuing to dip into the forties at night.

Not that it bothers me enough to even put on shoes. I seat myself on the chair close to the door, not bothering to turn on any of the outdoor patio lights. I like to sit out here without my phone, and enjoy the nice, anti-screen time where I can just…decompress after a day of dealing with people and generally existing upon my mortal coil.

A sigh leaves me as I yank open the lid of the chocolate dip, and in seconds I have a chunk of strawberry in my mouth that’s drenched in probably too much fruit dip to be legal. But since I’m a single, independent adult, who’s going to call me on it?

My phone vibrates in my pocket, causing me to contort awkwardly in my seat to reach it. Something in me clenches, expecting to see Huxley’s name popping up with some vaguely threatening text message that may or may not be funny.

Instead, I see Em has messaged the group chat with me and my two friends, and I’m surprised to see she’s canceling our plans for tomorrow.

Normally I’m the one to decide that home and isolation seems like a much better idea than peopling for any length of time. But she apologizes over text, telling us she’s caught something from her little brother.

Told you that you should’ve faked having work to do and said no to babysitting , I say, shooting off the message with a few upside down smiley face emojis for flair.

She responds with a written out SIGH and a face rolling its eyes.

I can’t cancel when it’s their date night. You know if they have to skip it, they get crazy for the next two weeks because they weren’t able to follow their schedule or whatever.

My nose scrunches in pity for her, then I watch the conversation between Mads and Em without chiming in much. While I’m not upset at either of them, my brain feels just a touch fuzzy tonight. I’m a little bit off, even though I don’t quite know why.

Well, that’s not true, is it?

The question comes from that part of my brain I usually prefer to ignore, and I bite my lip at the knowledge that I know exactly what’s up with me. Not only was this my first day back, I’m coming off of a week spent in Florida with my absolute least favorite people.

They haven’t even asked me how I am. The most I’d gotten was a text from my mother making sure I’d gotten back okay, but nothing after that. Part of me can’t help but wonder if she really cares.

The other part of me wonders if they’re disappointed I didn’t have some tearful, dramatic reaction where I took back all the blame ever placed on my shitty uncle for hurting me as a kid.

But where were they when I was in the hospital, having surgery for a fractured arm that was pulled out of socket?

Where were they when he told my parents they were raising me to be soft and that they didn’t need to listen to my bullshit about what did or didn’t happen?

Anger rises like nausea in my chest, and I shift in the chair until I have one leg thrown over the arm and my toes curled in irritation. Absently, I eat my strawberries, the chocolate tasting just a little less sweet with my brain in a less than helpful place.

“You’re fine,” I tell myself, lounging against the wicker back of the most comfortable lawn chair I own. “You’re fine, you’re home, and Aunt Hortense’s ghost is doing a terrible job of keeping Patrice away.” I scoff to myself. “So much for houses coming with poltergeists to ward away those who aren’t welcome inside.”

When my ears pick up a noise in the yard, I don’t look up. Not the first time, though my brain keeps track of the noise as I stare up at the bit of sky that I can see from this angle under the covered patio. I gnaw on another strawberry, pretty sure the rustling is coming from the thin line of trees and is most likely a cat or, maybe, a raccoon.

But probably a cat, since there’s more than one person around here who lets them be outside either part of the time or all of it. Sometimes I hear the telltale jingle of a collar, but tonight I just hear soft footsteps.

Maybe it’s Huxley’s last visit that has me on edge. That’s what I blame it on as I listen to the noise and lean back to stare at the sky. I’m tired enough that I feel my eyes cross a few times as I focus on darkness. So with a low sigh, I let my eyes close instead of holding them open to stare at the vast darkness with very few stars.

I’m not lonely, I tell myself.

I’m just alone , which is a completely different thing. This is something I chose. I like being alone, without my family, without my?—

The loud snap of a twig that sounds like it was broken by something much heavier than a cat makes me sit up, and my gaze scans the darkness of the yard. “Hello?” I ask, getting to my feet, knowing I’m overreacting. I know that there’s nothing here.

But then again, I’d never expected a murderer to be in my house two nights ago, either.

“No one’s there,” I sigh to myself, filling the night with the sound of my voice instead of just the noises that are freaking me out for no reason. “You’re fine. If it’s anyone, it’s Patrice. And all it would take would be a well-placed blow with any instrument of choice to knock her out.” But Patrice shouldn’t be back here. No one should, since I’ve always kept the yard gate locked.

But the next sound, clearly a step, has me bolting upright in my chair and nearly falling out of it. I shove myself to my feet and look around the dark yard, wishing I’d turned on the patio light instead of sitting out here in the pitch black of the chilly April night.

“Dear God. If this is a test and Patrice is back here without her life alert bracelet after having a fall…you should pick a stronger soldier,” I breathe, not being particularly quiet about the plea. My bare feet sink into the cold, damp grass as I walk across my yard, and my toes curl against the soft ground under me as I shiver.

There’s no one out here, I tell myself, both inside and out loud.

“There’s literally no one here. You’re just freaking out over nothing.” My heart beats too fast in my chest, and I finally make it to the back of the yard to peer at the trees over the fence.

Nothing.

There’s nothing .

Satisfied and not having heard anything else, I tilt my head back and let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re fine,” I remind myself, turning. “You’re literally…”

My words trail off when the garish red slash of Huxley’s mask leers down at me. He leans forward to press one hand to the fence, his glove in place as he closes the distance between us.

“Fuck,” I murmur. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Yeah,” Huxley agrees softly. He lifts his other hand to tilt up my chin with the flat of the hunting knife he carries, sending a tremble down my spine. “I’m absolutely fucking with you, and I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it. Are you going to run for me, pretty girl?”

“Should I?” I feel frozen in place, even as my heart beats rabbit-fast in my chest. “Do I need?—”

The knife twists so the point is just under my chin, only inches from my throat where he could kill me in an instant. My breath comes in small, nervous pants as I try not to move. My fingers curl against the fence and yet again I find I can’t breathe.

“Yes.” He leans in a little closer until his mask is all that I can see. “Yes, little bunny. Don’t you dare scream, because as much as I love your wit and self-pep talks…I won’t go to jail for you. Run away , little bunny. But don’t you dare make a sound.”