Chapter 2: Secrets Behind Closed Doors

I have never met a client as peculiar as Mr. Wallace. And trust me, I’ve massaged everyone from soccer moms to tattooed bikers.

My name’s Natalie Parks. I’m thirty-eight, and I make my living as a traveling massage therapist.

I’ve known Mr. Wallace for almost three months now; he’s become one of my regulars.

He’s a retired college professor, and he talks like he just stepped out of an old educational film—methodical, upright, meticulous. I call him Mr. Wallace because anything else feels weird.

He’s got that old-school, buttoned-up vibe: pressed khakis, cable-knit sweater, the kind of guy who’d correct your grammar at the dinner table and never tell a story without a point. Sometimes, just being around him makes me sit up straighter, like I’m back in high school.

He books me for home massages at least two or three times a week. Says he has an old back injury from his younger days—always claims it flares up and only massage brings relief.

But after six, maybe seven years in this line of work, I know what a real back injury feels like.

With most clients, you can find the sore spot in seconds. I always try to avoid it, keep them comfortable.

But with Mr. Wallace? No matter how deep I go, he never even flinches.

So what’s the deal? Is he faking it? Maybe he’d fought in a secret war, or maybe he just wanted company—either way, I never asked.

Still, I let it go. Everyone’s got their quirks. No need to call them out.

Mr. Wallace says he’s a clean freak—insists I don’t see any other clients the day I visit him. At first, that bugged me. An hour-long massage, and I’m supposed to turn down the rest of my day’s business?

But he pays me more for one session than I make in three or five days with other clients. For that kind of cash, I’m happy to play along.

Yet it only made me more curious.

People in my line of work, we know the types. Some clients try to get handsy, or ask for something extra at the end.

I thought maybe Mr. Wallace was one of those—figured he’d eventually try to cross the line.

But he never did. Only ever wanted a normal massage and some light conversation. Even when I hinted at other options, he never took the bait.

So what was he after? I couldn’t figure it out.

Maybe it’s just the loneliness that comes with money. Sometimes I’d catch him staring out the window, like he was waiting for someone who’d never show. Maybe the rich aren’t looking for pleasure, just a safe place to talk.

This morning, he called again, asking me to come over.