Free A Cold Day in Paradise by Steve Hamilton

said that if you look out into the darkness long enough, you’ll start to see whatever it is that you’re afraid that you’ll see.”
    “So what would you like me to do?”
    “I want you to stay here tonight,” she said. “Maybe for a couple nights, if that’s what it takes.”
    “Mrs. Fulton—”
    “I’m begging you, Mr. McKnight. I’ll pay you anything you want.”
    “Mrs. Fulton, I’m sure the sheriff could keep a man out here for a few nights …”
    “No,” she said. Her voice changed into that of a woman who was accustomed to having things her own way, especially when she was willing to pay for it. “That will not do. The sheriff is not going to send a man out here all night just because an old woman has a dream, and thinks she sees things in the darkness. I just want someone to stay here for a night or two. To make me feel better. I want you, Mr. McKnight. I’ve already said that you’ll be well compensated.”
    I couldn’t bear the thought of staying in this place, but Mrs. Fulton kept working me over like an old pro until I finally agreed. There’s something faintly annoying about rich people, I’ve noticed. They don’t even wait to see if you’ll do something for them out of the goodness of your own heart. They go right to the money. They wave it in front of you like a candy cane in front of a child.
    Sylvia was still on the road when I left the place. “You’ve been out here all this time?” I asked when I stopped next to her. “You just had to get one more shot in, eh?”
    “I was not about to go into that house when you were in there,” she said. Her cheeks were bright red from standing out in the wind.
    “It’s a big house,” I said. “You wouldn’t have even had to see me.”
    “I would have known,” she said. “I would
have felt
you there.”
    “Yeah, well then you’ll be feeling me quite a bit tonight,” I said. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I want to make sure I bring the right wine.”
    “If you’re trying to make a joke, it’s not funny.”
    “It’s no joke, Sylvia. Your mother-in-law just hired me to spend the night. Now, are you going to tell me what’s for dinner or aren’t you? If I bring red wine and you’re serving fish, I swear to God, you’ll be one sorry woman.”
    I DROVE BACK down to my cabin, figuring I’d just pack an overnight bag, make sure everything was okay around the place. I had a friend up the road named Vinnie LeBlanc who could keep an eye on things for a couple days. He was a Chippewa Indian, a member of the Bay Mills tribe. Like most of the Chippewas around here, he had a little French in him, a little Italian, a little God knows what else. He worked as a blackjack dealer at the Bay Mills Casino, and during the hunting season he’d sometimes act as a guide for some of the men who rented my cabins. He knew how to play up the Indian thing when he was leading a bunch of downstaters through the woods. And of course he went by his Ojibwa nickname, Red Sky, because as he himself had said many times, who’s going to hire an Indian guide named Vinnie?
    I pulled in next to my cabin and got out of the truck.
    When I went to the door, I saw something on the step.
    It was a rose. A single blood red rose.
    I picked it up. I looked around me. Just pine trees. Nobody would have seen him put this here. I looked around on the ground. No footprints, no tire tracks.
    I opened the door and looked inside, letting out my breath as I saw that my cabin was empty. There was no sign of forced entry, but you never know. I checked the phone. No messages.
    A single red rose. It made me start to think of something, but I couldn’t quite get to it.
    Or maybe I didn’t want to get to it. Maybe I didn’t want to make the connection.
    I was about to crush the rose, but then thought better of it. It’s bad luck to destroy a rose. Somebody told me that once.
    I put the rose in a glass of water, packed my bag, went back