Annalise made sure her long, dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck before she removed a tray of freshly baked macaron shells from the bakery oven.  The timer had rung about three minutes ago, but recently, she found out that letting the cookies sit for just a bit longer in the oven somehow enhanced the flavours.  Tiny perfect circles of blue, pink and green greeted her as she pulled the oven door open, sat in neat rows on the baking sheet with steam rising from the slightly domed surface.  She resisted the urge to pick one up and eat it as it was a new recipe she tried out and reminded herself to let it cool.

 

She busied herself by tidying up the kitchen.  Mixing bowls, eggshells, and measuring cups had been tossed haphazardly into the sink while she baked and she mentally slapped herself for making this more work than necessary.  Still, she hummed to herself, occasionally mumbling lyrics to her favourite songs under her breath as she washed and cleaned up.

 

The macarons were cool when she finished, and she was bursting with excitement as she carefully piped a ring of chocolate ganache along the edge of a cookie and filled the inside with jam or buttercream that corresponded to the shell colour.  Blueberry, strawberry and pistachio, the third flavour being something she didn’t usually use, but experimenting was all part of the fun.  She hesitantly bit into a green macaron, eyebrows lifting with delight as the flavours exploded in her mouth.  She loved the saltiness that came from the pistachio butter and the smoothness of the ganache.  This one, she thought to herself with glee.  I’d have to make more of this.

 

“Anna!” a bleached blonde head poked through the double doors.  Her brown eyes sparkled when she spotted the tray, piled high with different pastries and cakes.  “The first customers are here!”  She managed to swipe a small tart without Annalise noticing and disappeared out front.

 

“I’ll be out soon!” she called, taking time to adjust the macarons on a circular silver plate.  This was to be carried around the tables when she or another employee had time, and the customers would be offered a sample while they waited for drinks or cakes, or if they were simply waiting with their friends or family.

 

It had become customary for the store to hand out complementary macarons over the past year.  Her best friend and business partner Millicent said that, “because Annalise could whip them out so quickly, it wouldn’t hurt to give a few away for free”.  Not to mention, it did help drum up the business.  Every now and then, Annalise would come in a bit earlier to make fresh batches of macarons until it became a habit.  As a result, the store gave out free macarons nearly every single day.

 

Sometimes, though not always, there were leftovers, and Annalise would let her employees leave after their shifts with a paper bag of complementary macarons, and any other desserts.  She said that there was no need to paid for it, but no one minded paying.  They all thought Annalise was extremely generous to do so and didn’t mind paying her back for the hard work she put into baking all these additional treats.

 

“I don’t mind giving them out,” Annalise had said when someone asked her about it.  “They may take me two hours to make, but that’s already the fastest you could make them if you’re proficient enough.  Besides, the store makes more than enough money.  I want to give back to the people who’ve helped me get to where I am today.”

 

That statement alone, especially after Millicent made a point to post about it on the bakery’s social media accounts, made the store one of the more popular dessert shops in the city, and business only grew from that point on.

 

Annalise made sure Millicent had left the kitchen, and that she was truly alone before she took out a Tupperware box of macaron shells that looked identical to the ones that she had just prepared.  The lid had some masking tape on it, with the words “DO NOT TOUCH” scrawled along the strip in bold capital letters.

 

It was vital, both figuratively and literally, that nobody ate one of these macarons.

 

Pulling on some latex-free gloves, she carefully lifted two shells from the box; a pink and a blue.  Recently she’d been experimenting with different shell colours for one macaron and people seemed to enjoy them.  No doubt the special someone to receive this macaron would enjoy it too.

 

Like before, she piped chocolate ganache along the edge of the pink shell, then filled it with blackberry jam.  She carefully rested the blue shell on top, then placed the macaron in a simple white cupcake liner with a golden trim.  The treat was packaged into a clear cellophane bag and tied off with a shimmering purple ribbon.  Her “specialty macarons”, she called them, reserved only for those who she thought deserved one.

 

Reaching into her pocket, Annalise took out a crumpled list of names written on a scrap of lined paper from one of her countless notebooks.  Some names were scribbled out with red pen and others were not.  Tracing a finger down the list, she came to a stop beside the one just under the last redacted name, Marcus Cain.  There were several red circles, black underlines and a few puncture holes from pencils around the name.  She didn’t know if she should be glad that he was the next person on the list or not.  On one hand, she could deal with him sooner, as he did act extremely weird around her the few times they actually talked.  He’d always act like he wanted to make a move, but never actually did, and she was thankful for that.

 

Her lips curled and she nodded, tapping her finger against the paper; he definitely deserved a specialty macaron.  

 

“Well, lucky you.” she murmured, venom dripping from her voice despite the triumphant smile on her face. “We’ll meet again, just like you wanted.”  You stalker, she added silently as hated memories of him following her around the parks, the city, and even in her neighbourhood flashed through her mind.  That was followed by countless screenshots of text messages, each one asking her if she was okay and why she wasn’t responding.  She banished the visions and focused on the completed macaron in front of her.  It sat innocently in the gold-lined wrapper, the dual coloured cookies hiding a surprise that most people didn’t notice until it was too late.

 

She placed the packaged treat and Tupperware box back under the counter beside her bag and left the kitchen with a tray of miniature macarons balanced on her arm.  A friendly smile was plastered on her face as she greeted the customers and offered free samples.

 

***

 

The shop closed at six pm, which gave her plenty of time to put her plan into action.  She sent a text first; a short, concise text asking Marcus if he was free to meet up at the Starbucks just around the corner of her apartment in an hour.  

 

The reply was instantaneous: [Of course!], with several smiling emojis sent in rapid succession.  She ignored it and focused on choosing her outfit, which consisted of a black knitted cardigan and a grey, knee length plaid skirt.

 

Then came the part that, in her opinion, took the most time; making sure she looked like she was just going on a date.  She carefully slid the curling iron from her dark locks, letting her hair fall in loose black curls around her shoulders.  She reached for a bottle of opened but unused hair spray, giving her finished curls a few sprays to keep their shape.  It was six thirty by the time she finished curling her hair and she knew that she couldn’t rush through with her makeup even though she wanted to skip that altogether.

 

You can’t do that, Anna, her inner self chastised.  If you look like you don’t care, people will know something’s up.  Besides, you gotta look your best, tonight’s going to be life changing.

 

She gritted her teeth and sprayed some more setting spray into her hair before starting on her makeup.

 

It was difficult to decide what kind of look she wanted to wear; a natural look, or a smokey eye; nude or bold lip?  Different combinations of bright colours, textures, and overall aesthetic ran through her mind, though nothing in particular stood out to her.

 

Natural it is, she thought as she lightly dusted on a powder that was a shade darker than her skin tone.

 

As she was applying a soft brown eyeshadow, her phone chimed and the screen lit up.  [See you at seven] the text read, and she glared at the screen with both disgust and anger.  Her hand tightened around the makeup brush and she nearly snapped it in half.  This was either going to be the best night of her life, or the worst.

 

A few minutes later, the screen lit up again and this time the text read [Are you okay?  Why aren’t you answering?]  It was followed by [Are you okay?  What happened?  Annalise?]

 

She scoffed and turned off her data before heading into her study.  The WiFi router was right behind her computer, the green light visible even in the brightly lit room.  She unplugged it and her phone notifications immediately stopped coming.

 

She wasn’t in the mood to deal with these shenanigans, even though in about twenty minutes, she’d be talking to the same person who had been the source of her anxiety for the past year.  Hopefully, tonight went as planned.   It usually did, but as she was going to be dealing with someone who’d been clearly stalking her, she made sure she was well prepared because quite literally, anything could happen.

 

***

 

It was six fifty when she arrived at the Starbucks around the corner and she saw him sitting at a table placed in the corner of her apartment building, looking at his phone.  She still had no idea why she suggested they meet up here, but at least it was close to home, and it’ll serve her purpose if things went to plan.

 

“Come on, you got this,” she muttered to herself as she pushed the doors open and joined the growing lineup of people.  As the line grew shorter, she snuck anxious glances at the man at the corner table.  He still didn’t look up from his phone, even as she ordered a venti apple oat latte with almond beverage and the barista announced her name for the whole store to hear.

 

In her pocket, her phone buzzed with who knew how many notifications, presumably all from him.  She took her phone out and silenced it once more, deleting the notifications at the same time.  She knew that he knew she was in the store and she knew he wouldn’t come up to her and strike up a conversation like any other person.  Even if he did, he’d still be relatively reserved and would wait until they were alone (for the most part) before his attitude took a complete 180° turn.

 

“No going back,” she chanted quietly, one hand slipping into her pocket where a small cardboard box rested.  The “tie-dye” blackberry macaron was still intact.  That was a good thing.

 

He looked up when she drew near, and his face lit up.  She bit back a groan and allowed a convincing smile onto her face as she sat down.

 

“I’m so glad you decided to reach out,” Marcus said as he tried to reach across the table to hold her hand.  She moved them to rest on her lap and kept her face the perfect mask of contentment.  “I’ve tried calling and you don’t answer your door or your texts--”

 

“I know.” Annalise’s voice was calm, cool, collected.  She repeated those words in her mind and exhaled sharply.  Under the table, her hands curled into tight fists.  “And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”  Thinking about how to get this situation to blow over without too much drama, not how to “reach out” like you believed, she added silently.

 

“Oh?”  He prompted her to continue and took a sip of his drink.

 

“Maybe I reacted a bit too harshly after that first date,” she murmured, mostly to herself.  She brought out the cardboard box and nudged it in his direction.  “Here.”

 

“What is it?” he asked, turning it around and shaking it gently.  The macaron clattered around inside and Annalise prayed that the shell didn’t crack.  The last thing she wanted — and this “date”, if she could call it that, didn’t count — was to give someone an imperfect dessert.

 

She forced herself to say, “A peace offering”, even smiling wider than before to cover all the raging emotions and mostly murderous thoughts in her head.  “Think of it as a free sample.” she added.  “Like a complementary treat.”

“A macaron,” he said, unwrapping the cellophane.  He sounded slightly disappointed.  That alone, if he was any other person, would’ve been enough to bring a frown onto her face.  Then she remembered he wasn’t “just another person”, and she didn’t mean that in a good way.  “I-uh, thanks.”

 

“It’s from my bakery,” she said, this time allowing herself to speak with a bit more force.  “You know, the one you go to practically every single day?”  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.  “It’s funny.  Milly said you don’t order anything except the occasional cake or coffee, and she knows everything that all of our usual customers order.”  She knew she had caught him off guard with her question, based on the way he started and made a point to look at his phone again.  “She told me your orders are random, and you never get the same thing twice.  I wonder why?”

 

“I don’t see you much,” he said, taking a bite of the cookie to avoid her question.  His eyes lit up, maybe even more so than when he saw her.  “This is so good, did you make this?”  He quickly finished it off and looked in the box for more.

 

“I make all the desserts in the bakery.” Annalise replied.  She took another sip of her drink and silently wished that she had gotten two of them.  One apple oat latte wouldn’t be enough if she wanted to get through tonight.  Or maybe it will, she didn’t know, because to her surprise, nothing much had happened.  Maybe she made a mistake with the macaron and--

 

“So I’ve tried to ask your friend.” Marcus said in an attempt to start a conversation.  “And she just said you’re busy with making the desserts.  And I never see you.”  He tried to look sad, but to her, he was trying too hard.  He was always trying too hard, even before he started following her around despite her constantly threatening to call the police.  Even during that disastrous first date they went on nearly a year and a half ago, he was trying too hard.  “Why don’t you ever come over to my table and talk to me?”

 

There it is, she thought with disappointment.  And here I thought he actually won’t be a bother tonight.  Wishful thinking at its best.

 

She didn’t try hiding her annoyance and said, “That’s because I am making the desserts.  The bakery is called ‘Macarons and More’.  Everyone in the city knows that macarons are my specialty, it’s my bakery.”  Gods, we’re going around in circles with this conversation.

 

He opened his mouth to reply but coughed, turning away in embarrassment and confusion.  Annalise rose from her chair and rounded the table to his side, hiding her own looks of surprise (though her surprise was for a completely different reason).  She knelt, lifting his face in her hands.  “Are you okay?” she asked sweetly.

 

He flushed red and said, “I think I must’ve ate something bad earlier,”  One hand was pressed against his stomach.  “I’m so sorry, can we meet up again sometime soon?”  He stumbled as he tried to stand and she was quick to steady him.  Her grip was tighter, like a warning, a clear contrast from when she was helping an actual friend, but she doubted he could tell the difference.

 

Plastering an even faker smile on her face, she said, “Well, my apartment is just around the corner.”  She paused, pretending to think and continued, “it’ll just be a five minute walk and you can rest there.  You can leave—” she emphasized the word, “—when you’re feeling better.”

 

His face became redder if that was possible, whether from her suggestion or from something else, she didn’t know.  He also didn’t bother hiding his delight, but she did — it was vital she hid her delight.  Besides, she knew he’d be feeling a lot better soon.  Every time she invited one of her dates back to her apartment in the past, they always ended up feeling better.  And regardless of who they had been, she’d taken care of them.  Stalker or not, she would take care of Marcus as well.

 

“Can you stand?” she asked, keeping up the facade of the concerned date.  “Here, let me help.”

 

She could see his triumphant expression that was twisted due to the grimace on his face and paid no mind to it.  Just this once, she’ll help him.  Just this once, she’ll tolerate this and the fact that she had to be in such close proximity to him.  Just this once, she’ll pretend like he didn’t stalk her wherever she went for the past year.

 

There was just one thing that kept her from snapping on the spot and that was the knowledge that once she arrived back at the apartment, she knew the fun would begin.  Hopefully the neighbours wouldn’t hear too much noise tonight.

​

// ***** \\

​

There was one cell at the Vancouver Jail that most officers were hesitant to enter, and that was cell number 26-018.  Within the 2m x 2.5m x 2m cell was a solitary figure, dressed in an orange uniform that all prisoners were required to wear.  Her long dark hair had been cut short, the wispy ends barely grazing her chin, and her constantly-analyzing eyes had lost some of their spark.  But she still sat with a perfect posture, with her back straight and her head held high.  She sat at the edge of her small cot, always staring at the heavy metal door with a window, covered by thick bulletproof glass.  There was a sliding metal plate over the glass, and it was always shut, preventing her from seeing outside.

 

She remembered when she was assigned this cell and the fearful expressions her escorting officers wore, as if she was going to turn around and ask them, “Would you like a complementary macaron?”  She just walked straight into the small room, never speaking or making eye contact with anyone.  The door had slammed shut behind her and she heard the click of a lock snapping in place.  She had allowed herself to laugh.  It had been amusing, as amusing as being in a prison cell can be.  It wasn’t as bad as many people made it seem.  They let her bake in the prison kitchens, so long as she didn’t serve up any special macarons.

 

She knew why she was in the Vancouver Jail.  She had completed her collection, with the help of her many dates.  It was thanks to her final date, Marcus Cain, that she was able to finish.  That was the one thing she would thank him for.  The completed, cleaned, and perfectly proportioned skeleton was locked up somewhere in the police archives as evidence.  A cast model of it stood in some museum, in an exhibit titled Most Dangerous Criminals of Canada.

 

She allowed herself to fall back onto the cot, not caring that the mattress was hard, and let her thoughts run free.  She replayed that day from ten years ago, starting from the moment she walked into the Starbucks around the corner, to when she invited Marcus back to her apartment.  She had been right; that night was the best night of her life.

 

He’d been fading in and out of consciousness when she managed to get him into the lobby, and many people had given her strange looks, leading her to give out random, but believable excuses.  “He drank too much,” she had said to one lady, who had asked her “Is your boyfriend okay?”  To another, she had said, “I think he’s just really tired.”  Other tenants had given her a wide berth and didn’t spare her a second glance.  Thankfully though, during the elevator ride up to her floor, there was no one in the car except for her and a barely conscious Marcus.

 

She had left him draped unceremoniously over her couch when she arrived at her apartment and headed into her kitchen, where she kept her Tupperware container of special macaron shells.  She put another one together, this one more haphazardly than the one she gave him in the Starbucks, but still looked alright (in her opinion).  Then came the waiting.  An hour, which felt like an eternity, passed, and he managed to get his eyes open.

 

“Where’m I?” he’d slurred, his hand feeling around the couch.  She didn’t mind or pay much attention to it, since she had to disinfect her whole apartment later anyway.

 

“You passed out and I had to carry you.” she had said, nudging the macaron to him.  “Want another macaron?  You seemed to like them.”  On the table in front of him, she had placed a glass of water.

 

It took a while, but he managed to finish off the macaron.  Then another, as he asked for more, until he had eaten three.  Four, if she counted the pink and blue one.  Each time, his movements became more sluggish and jerky until he passed out again, this time flopping onto her carpet.

 

“Was hoping you’d be more fun, but I guess I can’t expect much from you, can I?” she had muttered as she got out a power saw from her closet.

 

Then white walls splattered with bright red faded into her grey painted cell and blood-curdling screams became the urgent knocking on the heavy metal door.  She blinked, sitting back up and rubbing her eyes.  “What?” she called impatiently as the rest of her daydream faded away.  “I’m busy.”

 

The barrier over her window slid aside, revealing a pair of dark brown eyes.  “You have a visitor, Anna,” the officer said as he unlocked the door, opening it partially.  “A woman, she claims to be your mother.  Do you want to see her?”

 

Annalise fell silent, contemplating and weighing her choices.  Eventually she stood, walking slowly to the door.  “Okay,” she said, her voice soft.  She followed the officer down an endless stretch of grey-painted hallways.  Her cuffed hands slid into her jumpsuit pocket, where a perfectly round macaron sat, wrapped in clear cellophane and tied off with a satin ribbon.