As I drive my hung-over-ass to CrossFit, I am pissed.

Pissed that I had sex with Vincent. Pissed that I admitted to Cara that Damon hurt me. Pissed that I haven’t solved this case yet.

Why, oh why, did I let Vincent have sex with me? I had already told him I was waiting for Damon to come home. Now I will have to explain to Damon that I let myself share blood – again – with a vampire. A vampire who can never fully love me.

I am so angry with myself.

Still, it was pretty great sex. I mean, a girl is allowed to just get off every once in a while, right?

I spend the first fifteen minutes of my workout pummeling the punching bag. I know how to throw a vicious punch, so it feels good to get my frustration out this way. I move from there to the daily challenge, which is a lot of weight lifting today. My arms burn as I finish the challenge, proud that I am able to do the same workout as the very buff, somewhat younger people who come here.

The final leg of my morning includes ball slams and as I am doing them, I notice a man staring at me from where he is waiting to do a rope climb. I feel weird with his eyes one me, so I try to turn my body away from him, hoping he will get the hint that I do not enjoy being stared at during my workout. Still, I can feel his eyes on me. When I turn back to say something, I get the distinct feeling that I know him, even though I have never seen him before in my life.

Disconcerted, I push through the last few ball slams without confronting him. I rush to the showers and get ready for work. I think about him all the way to the office.

Just as I walk into the office, I literally do a face-palm. He was nearly six feet tall, sandy blonde hair, medium build. He matches the description of all the male witnesses in our Centerfold cases. Once I realize this, I go right back to my car and drive right back to CrossFit.

He is, of course, gone by the time I return. I ask the front desk worker to tell me his name and address. Every member has a photo, phone number, and address on file. As we flip through the names of everyone who came in this morning, we finally find him.

“Scott Wilkinson,” she says. “Three-oh-five Alameda Court.”

“You are my hero,” I say.

I call Rick, giddy, from the car. I explain the situation and tell him I am on my way back to check this guy out.

We find him in the system as soon as I return. He is, indeed, a real person with a real address. I feel like I am on top of the moon.

“What will you do?” Rick asks. “I mean, how many men fit that description? It’s not a lot to go on. How will we get a warrant?”

“I think we can stake him out. Follow along. See where he goes,” I say. “It can’t hurt, right? If he does anything suspicious, we can use our evidence to get the warrant to search the house then.”

“Okay, that seems like a good plan,” he says. “I sure hope he leads us to something useful. A hunch is not strong evidence.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

“Most days,” he says.

“Today?”

“Yes, I think so,” Rick says. “Tell me your plan.”

The plan is that I am going to take a nondescript stake-out car and hang outside his place. If he leaves, I will follow him. Simple, right?

Scott Wilkinson has a day job, it turns out, at a big-box pharmacy. He works all day, and when he leaves for the afternoon, I follow him home. I watch as he gets his mail, says hello to a neighbor, and heads into his apartment. It is another three hours before he emerges, heading to his car in a black hoodie and a pair of dark jeans.

He drives to a gas station and fills up his tank. Then he gets on the highway. This time of evening, traffic is much lighter than usual. I follow at what I assume is a safe distance. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that he is being tailed. We drive for maybe twenty minutes before he exits, heading into a residential area made up mostly of run-down duplexes and multi-unit apartment buildings.

When he stops in front of a house, I immediately call Rick in the office and ask him to see what he can find. He says he will call me back.

Scott walks around the outside of the house. At one point, he peers in through the side windows before he goes back to his car. I see him strike a match and light a candle.

Rick calls back, confirming what I have already started to piece together.

“Carrie Rogers,” he says. “She’s eighteen and a dancer at the Centerfold Club. Lives with her father, Mort. What is the guy doing?”

“He wandered around the house, looked in the windows, then went back to his car and lit a candle,” I say.

“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” he says. “What do you think he is doing?”

“Nothing good,” I answer. “Can you see who’s on her tonight and warn them?”

“Affirmative,” he says. “Keep me posted.”

We hang up and I watch for any other activity. But Scott Wilkinson never leaves his car again.

The neighborhood is quiet. A few times, cars go by blaring music. At one point, I hear shouting down the street. I just sit and wait, as the suspect sits and waits. What could he be doing?

It is nearly three in the morning when the young Carrie Rogers gets home. She lets herself in the front door and a light pops on at the front of the house right away.

I roll down my window, listening for any disturbances. For a while, there is nothing, though I see two figures moving around in the front room through the window. The smaller figure is being very expressive with her hands.

It’s not until I hear a scream that I get out of the car, running toward the house. My heart is pounding in my chest and I am nearly trampled as the diminutive girl barrels out of the house, her father on her heels, a gleaming – no, glowing – dagger in his hands.

Mort Rogers’ eyes are dead, dull, and black as pitch as he pushes past me, after his daughter. He is crazed and out of his mind, telling her what a whore she is, how she needs to pay for her sins.

I throw myself onto Mort’s back and he goes down, face-first. I manage to wrestle away the dagger, tossing it to the grass as I slap a pair of handcuffs on him. The officer on Carrie-duty emerges from his vehicle, stunned at what he is seeing played out.

“Watch him!” I order the officer as I run toward the car where Scott Wilkinson stands, mouth agape as he sees that whatever plan he enacted has been thwarted. He starts to get back in the car but must realize that he won’t be able to get away fast enough, so he turns and runs down the street.

I’m fast, though, and right on his heels. I pull my weapon from its holster, ready to fire just to wound him. He keeps running but he’s hit from the side, like a quarterback being sacked. He hits the ground with an audible grunt, a nearly-rabid vampire on top of him, teeth bared.

“He reeks of dark magic,” Vincent hisses.

I can see in Vincent’s mind, he plans to rip this guy to shreds. I put up my hands, “Don’t kill him,” I say. “We have questions to ask.”

“I know just the place,” he says.

“I’ll get the car,” I say.

I run back to the vehicle and drive to get them. Vincent has compelled the man to sleep, and we put his prone body into the back seat. I drive and Vincent directs. It is a long, quiet drive, but we eventually find ourselves in an industrial part of the city, one I have never seen. Vincent carries the suspect into an abandoned factory, sets him on a rickety, metal chair, and ties him up.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes his predicament and thrashes against his bindings.

“You filthy piece of undead trash!” he yells at Vincent, who stands with his arms folded over his chest.

“I have been called worse,” Vincent says before punching him in the mouth.

He spits out a tooth and looks at me. “And you, the whore. You sleep with Hunters and vampires. You’re a filthy slut, an abomination among our great race of witches and warlocks. You will be purged with the rest of these nasty beasts.”

Vincent punches him again. Blood dribbles down his chin as he smiles in response. “You enjoy drinking the blood of someone so powerful. You act as if you care for her, but you want only to drink her power. She has no idea how strong she is, but you do.”

“Shut up,” Vincent hisses, kicking his boot into the man’s stomach, sending him flying backward.

“Vincent, what does he mean?” I ask.

“He is crazed, trying to get in our heads,” Vincent says.

“Scott, why are you doing this? Why control these people, make them kill their loved ones?” I ask.

“War is coming, little witch,” he says as Vincent sets him upright once more. “The world will be cleansed. Creatures will be rendered to dust. The pure will inherit the earth.”

Before I can ask another question, he bursts into flame. I scream, telling Vincent to save him, but it’s as if he is covered in gasoline, he is engulfed so quickly. He doesn’t scream as the fire eats away his flesh, but I do. I scream and scream as I watch him char and melt away, leaving only ash and bones and a molten, melted metal chair behind.

I call Rick as Vincent drives us back to the city, to my apartment.

“He set himself on fire,” I say. “I don’t know how he did it, but he was outside that house and then the father went after the girl just the same way as the other murders.”

“The father says he remembers nothing past the show he watched at midnight,” Rick confirms. “Just like the others, says he loves his daughter, would never hurt her. He stays up every night she works just to make sure she gets home safe.”

“Do you think Scott Wilkinson was our guy?” Rick asks. “Is it over?”

“I can’t say that for sure,” I answer. “I think he was part of it, for sure, but maybe a puppet. I need to think.”

“I don’t understand what he could have done to make the father do that,” Rick says. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I’m quiet for a moment. “No, no,” I assure him. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

“Well, good work tonight,” he says. “Your hunch was right, and you saved a life.”

As we near my apartment, Vincent insists on walking me up even though I tell him I am fine.

Inside, I wander into my kitchen and make myself some hot tea. I sit at the kitchen table with it, hand over my mouth as I see the man burning alive, over and over in my head. I have seen gruesome crime scenes, many of them. I do not know what is wrong with me, that I am crying and screaming and freaking out these days.

Vincent waits as I process the night. Once my tea has gone cold, I rise and head to the bathroom. I wash my face and run a bath. Vincent watches this whole thing, a silent observer, allowing me to work through things on my own.

It isn’t until I rise from the tub, naked and wet, that he makes his way to me. He kisses me, his hand snaking between my thighs.

I push him away. “No, Vincent.”

“Let me stay with you,” he says. “Let me pleasure you, take you away from all this death.”

“No,” I say again, firmly.

“You should allow yourself pleasure, Amy,” he says. “You should allow yourself an escape.”

I dry off, tears burning in my eyes, angry at him for wanting sex when we have just seen a man burn himself to death. I stomp off, finding my pajamas, pulling them on angrily, and climbing into bed.

He waits a while, presumably waiting for me to invite him to bed. But I don’t. I just turn to my side and pretend he’s not there. And eventually, he isn’t.