Red Tide by G. M. Ford

By G. M. Ford

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He’d insisted on taking Anya home, over her protestations that she could call a cab. Anya glanced at his profile. It was a handsome profile, one that she’d known better once upon a time: strong jaw, aquiline nose, sensuous mouth. That was before Brian had gotten too close. And she didn’t want him to get burned. Anya kept to her side of the van seat, fingers wrapped around a hot chocolate in a Styrofoam cup. “Oh,” she said. Brian shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant. ” He blew out his breath, fogging the glass.

Overhead, a flexible dryer duct threaded through the unfinished ceiling. Boxes of Christmas decorations lined the walls. Old dresses, carefully encased in plastic bags, were neatly hung from lengths of overhead pipe. A scarred workbench, which must have belonged to the old man, stood in the corner, its tools stilled. This place was the vault of the old woman’s memories; no wonder the malevolent spirit had found a home here, in all the dust and emotion of years. Fertile ground for a wandering spirit.

He spread his hands. Anya noticed that they were clean, no visible evidence of accelerant under his nails or on his palms. ” “Did you see anyone hanging around? ” He shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. I was sitting in the security van in the south edge of the car lot. ” “Any strange smells? ” “No. ” John’s face clouded. “Um. . ” Anya shook her head. She gave him a half smile as she capped her pen. ” John grinned in relief. “Thanks, ma’am. Um. . can I go now? ” She handed him her card. “I’ll be in touch.

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