Thirteen minutes until my last client arrives.
I use the time to prep the massage room—fresh sheets on the table, oils warming, lights dimmed to the perfect level.
Everything is just right.
At 3:58, the front door chimes.
I head out to greet my client.
He's standing in the lobby—tall, broad-shouldered, maybe mid-forties.
Wearing jeans and a plain button-down shirt.
Nothing remarkable about him.
Nothing that should make my stomach tighten with unease.
But something does.
Something I can't name.
Something in the way he's looking at me.
"William Smith?" I ask, keeping my voice professional.
"That's me."
"Welcome to Calming Spaces. I'm Ingrid. I'll be your massage therapist today."
"Ingrid." He repeats my name slowly, like he's tasting it. "Pretty name."
"Thank you. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."
I turn, leading him down the hallway.
His footsteps are heavy behind me.
Too close.
I'm being paranoid.
He's just a client.
A new client who booked a massage like hundreds of other people have done.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
"Here we are." I open the door to the massage room, gesture inside. "You can undress to your comfort level and lie face down under the sheet. I'll knock before I come back in."
"How long do I have?"
"Take your time. Five minutes or so. Is there anything specific you'd like me to focus on today? Any areas of tension or pain?"
"My shoulders. Lots of tension."
"I'll make sure to give them extra attention. Would you like some water?"
"No."
