I had been alone in the spa at night only a few times and it was always fine, but for some reason, this man gave me the chills. He tugged at the door and I stepped into view, flicking the reception area lamp back on. I turned the flashlight off on my phone and kept a little distance from the door.

“Hey, sorry, are you closed?” he mouthed through the glass door. His voice was friendly enough.

“Yeah, we are.”

“Oh, sorry. I think I did something to my back during PT and was hoping you guys would still be open. Do you know anywhere else around here that’s open late?”

He seemed legit, friendly enough, and I immediately felt guilty for the way my imagination had instantly conjured up the worst-case scenario. I’d had a rough week and was obviously still a little wonky. I smiled at him to make myself feel better about branding him as a serial killer. I wasn’t going to stay for another hour—even though we really did need the business, and lord knows I really needed the money. Instead, I opened the door slightly and proposed a compromise.

“I don’t think anyone is going to be open past nine, but if you want to come in first thing in the morning I could be here extra-early,” I offered. I wasn’t just saying it to get the business; nothing except Walmart and fast food joints were open late in this town.

“I think I can get out of PT in the morning. Can I come in and put my name down?”

“Sure.”

The man stepped inside and looked into my eyes. It was a little off-putting, but honest, too, in a strange sort of way. He followed me to the desk, and I grabbed the paper version of the schedule, since I had already shut the computer down. I looked at my day tomorrow.

“I have a ten-o’clock opening and a twelve, but I could come in at nine or eight thirty for you, since you came all this way tonight,” I told him.

“Let’s do eight thirty so it will be extra-quiet in here.” He turned to look at the hours of operation painted on the front door in clear white letters.

“Okay.” I swallowed. “Eight thirty it is. Can I have your name, please?”

“Nielson,” he told me. I wrote it down. It sounded familiar, but I knew I had never seen his face before. I knew faces.

“Are you . . . you know, going to give me that kind of massage?” His voice crawled over me like tiny little spiders.

My stomach dropped. “What did you just say?” I snapped. I looked at the camera again, this time in a really obvious way. This time he noticed.

I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run. But I reached deep for my courage and held my ground.