Chapter 1: The Woman Who Vanished Twice

My fiancée and I vanished without a trace while vacationing in Maple Heights—alive, nobody saw us; dead, there were no bodies, not even a hint. It was like we’d slipped right off the map, and nobody could say how or why.

It was the kind of story that would land on the front page of the Maple Heights Gazette, or maybe get dissected by a true-crime podcast—neighbors whispering over chain-link fences, everybody adding their own twist. Maple Heights wasn’t the kind of town where people just disappeared, not without the whole block noticing. But somehow, we’d managed it. Every night, I’d lie awake, replaying our last day over and over, hunting for some overlooked clue in the haze of memory.

To search for her, I quit my job and camped out in Maple Heights for a year. That wasn’t the plan, but obsession has a way of rewriting your life. Sometimes I’d look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the guy staring back.

I rented a cramped apartment above a laundromat, my suitcase turning into a permanent fixture in the corner. Every morning, I’d walk the same streets, a stack of flyers tucked under my arm, Savannah’s smile looking back at me from every telephone pole. I learned the rhythm of every pothole, the names of every corner store clerk, and the favorite orders of every regular at the greasy spoon on Main. Summer hit with its sticky heat, then the leaves burned and dropped, snow crusted the sidewalks, and the humidity crawled back in. Time blurred. I felt it in my bones. Still nothing—just her memory, sharper than ever, refusing to fade.

Just when I was ready to pack it in and leave, I spotted a figure at the produce stand outside the old grocery—a shape I’d know anywhere.

I’d stopped for coffee at the corner bodega, the kind that tastes like burnt regret no matter how much sugar you dump in. I almost didn’t look up. But something—a flicker of movement, a flash of dark hair catching sunlight—made me freeze mid-sip. My heart stuttered. I set my cup down so hard coffee sloshed over the rim and onto my hand, but I barely felt it.

Her skin was pale, almost luminescent in the sun, with that long, straight black hair Savannah always joked about, and a waist that curved like she’d stepped out of a dream. But it wasn’t just the shape; it was the way she moved, like she was both there and somewhere else at once.

She looked almost too vivid in the harsh daylight, like a memory that had clawed its way into the present. The breeze caught her hair, and for a second, time folded back on itself. My throat went dry, and my pulse thundered in my ears so loud I could barely hear the street noise.

She wore a backless tank top, cut-off shorts with glittery letters, and flip-flops.

It was exactly the kind of outfit Savannah would’ve thrown on for a lazy Saturday—carefree, a little bold, not giving a damn what the neighbors thought. The glitter on her shorts caught the sun and sent tiny sparks skipping across the sidewalk. She looked like she both belonged and didn’t, as if she’d claimed the block for herself.

Her long, straight legs were crossed at the ankles as she stood—casual, confident, impossible to ignore.

There was a kind of swagger to her, the way she leaned on one hip, tapping her foot to some private beat. Every guy walking by tried not to stare and failed. Hope stabbed through me—sharp, bright, and terrifying.

For a second, I just stood there, stunned. That was Savannah’s signature pose. I’d seen it a hundred times—waiting for an Uber, picking apples at the farmer’s market, goofing off for photos on vacation. No one else stood like that. My hands started to tremble, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

My heart hammered in my chest, and before I knew it, I was moving forward—fast, reckless, like I was afraid she’d vanish if I blinked.

I nearly tripped over my own feet, weaving through the crowd. My breath came in short, ragged bursts. It was like my body recognized her before my mind could even process it. Savannah, Savannah, Savannah—I chanted her name silently, desperate for her to turn around.

I got close—close enough to reach out. I barely held it together as I tapped her shoulder, my voice shaking so hard I almost couldn’t get the word out.

"Savannah!"

My hand hovered in the air, just inches from her skin. My voice cracked, the name hanging between us, raw and pleading. Suddenly, it felt like everyone on the street was watching, the air thick with expectation.

"What do you want?"

The woman turned, slow and deliberate, and shot me a look of pure annoyance.

Her expression was all attitude—brows drawn tight, lips pursed in a way that said she’d had enough of strangers. She gave me a once-over, not scared, just tired—like she’d been through this routine before. For a second, I lost my nerve, thrown off by her cold stare.

A wave of floral perfume drifted over—familiar, achingly so.

It was Savannah’s scent—light jasmine, with something sweet and almost playful underneath. The memory sucker-punched me. I had to swallow hard to keep from losing it right there. The perfume clung to the humid air, making the moment feel like a fever dream.

I froze. Standing in front of me was a beautiful woman—arched brows, red lips, a dimple at the corner of her mouth. Even the way she frowned was a perfect echo of Savannah. The resemblance was uncanny. Too uncanny. My mind scrambled for an explanation, my hands slick with sweat.

"Savannah, why are you here?"

My voice quivered. I couldn’t help myself—I reached out and caught her arm, desperate for her to recognize me.

My fingers brushed her skin, and for a split second, hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe this was it—maybe she’d turn and everything would fall back into place. But her eyes went hard, and her whole body tensed like I was a threat.

But she recoiled instantly.

She jerked away like I’d shocked her. Her eyes blazed, and she squared her shoulders, ready for a fight. The crowd around us shifted, some people backing off, others rubbernecking to see what would happen next.

She screamed and raised her hand.

"Creep!"

Her voice cracked through the air, sharp as a slap. Heads snapped around. My cheeks burned; shame crawled up my neck. I started to stammer an apology, but she cut me off before I could say a word.

Slap!

Her palm connected with my face, snapping my head to the side.

The sound ricocheted down the block. My cheek lit up, stinging, and my ears rang. I stood there, dazed, trying to process what just happened. I tasted blood and humiliation.

I didn’t think someone that delicate could hit like that.

She had the swing of a softball champ—my vision swam for a second. I staggered back, hands up, surrendering. People in the crowd murmured, some laughing, others just shaking their heads. I felt raw and exposed, confusion swirling with embarrassment.

The produce stand owner, usually grinning like Santa, finally couldn’t take it anymore.

"Cassie, some customers come up short sometimes. Just let it go—he’s not the only one who owes you! If you gotta talk, talk. No need to smack folks!"

His voice boomed over the sidewalk, thick with a Midwest drawl. He wiped his hands on his apron, shooting us both a look of weary resignation. A couple of regulars snickered, like they’d seen this show before.

But the woman—Cassie—didn’t miss a beat. She snatched up a handful of chili powder from the stand and tossed it right at him.

"Mind your own business!"

She flung the powder with a flick of her wrist—like she’d done it a hundred times. The old man yelped, stumbling back, eyes streaming. The crowd howled, someone muttering, "Classic Cassie." She spun on her heel, hair swinging, and stalked off.

She strutted down the block, hips rolling, flip-flops snapping against the pavement. Even after the scene she’d caused, she was untouchable—commanding the street. A couple of guys at the bus stop whistled, but she didn’t so much as glance their way. I couldn’t look away.

The produce stand owner groaned for a while before he could finally squint through his red, watery eyes and shoot me a look.

He blinked, rubbing his face with the back of his hand. "Man, that girl’s got an arm on her," he muttered, voice thick. He looked me up and down, like he was trying to figure out if I was trouble or just another lost soul.

"You owe her money too, buddy? How much?"

He half-joked, half-probed, his tone somewhere between small-town gossip and warning. With the way he said it, you’d think Cassie had half the town in her pocket. He glanced around, making sure nobody else was listening in.

I stared after her, gutted, watching her disappear around the corner.

My feet wouldn’t move. Hope fizzled out, replaced by a hollow ache that felt too familiar. I watched Cassie vanish into the haze, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined the whole thing.

"She looks… so much like her…"

The words slipped out, barely more than a whisper. My voice sounded small, lost. I pressed a palm to my stinging cheek, half-expecting to wake up from a bad dream.

The owner winced, rubbing his face.

"Makeup works wonders, man. But Cassie Monroe’s famous for being stingy—never gives credit unless you’re a regular! You look new here. How’d you pull that off?"

He gave me a sly grin, lowering his voice like he was letting me in on a secret. "She runs this block, you know. Most folks steer clear after a run-in or two."

I just stood there, stunned.

My mind raced. Could it really be her? Or was I seeing Savannah everywhere, chasing ghosts? The world felt like it had tilted sideways. I shoved my hands in my pockets, trying to ground myself.

Images from every true-crime show I’d ever watched flashed through my mind—missing fiancées, cold cases, those Dateline specials where someone vanishes and the worst-case scenario is always the first theory. My stomach twisted. Savannah, lost somewhere, or worse. I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d stepped into one of those stories.

I shivered, fear crawling down my spine.

A cold sweat prickled under my shirt. The street suddenly felt darker, the people a little too interested. I tried to shake it off, but the dread clung tight.

Maple Heights at night wasn’t exactly safe. After dark, the weirdos came out—punks in neon windbreakers, teenagers with face piercings, drifters wrapped in camo jackets. The cops barely bothered. First night in town, I learned to keep my head down and walk fast.

And there was this rumor—guys here had a thing for pale-skinned women.

It sounded ridiculous, but it stuck with me. Barflies would talk about "porcelain skin" like it was some kind of prize. I hated the way they lingered on Savannah’s photo when I showed it around, their eyes greedy and curious.

Thinking of Savannah—her fair skin, beautiful face, those long legs—I felt my voice shake. I couldn’t hide it.

I felt exposed, like my desperation was written all over my face. My words came out hoarse, my grip tightening on my phone.

"That woman just now—what’s her deal?"

The owner grinned, catching my drift.

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You really wanna know?" He winked, elbowing me. "Don’t worry, man. You’re not the first."

"No need to be shy, buddy. Us guys, we know what’s what. I swear, you and her—sparks flying. It’s fate or something."

He let out a big laugh, booming across the fruit crates. "Don’t let her scare you off. Takes guts to talk to Cassie."

"Tourist, right? You just got here and already found the prettiest girl on Main. Can’t blame you for that!"

He clapped me on the back, almost knocking me off balance. "She’s a legend around here. People drive in from the next county just to get a look. You picked a hell of a time to show up."

I stammered, "She really does that kind of work?"

The owner nodded, seeing right through me.

He shrugged, like it was just how things worked. "That’s Maple Heights for you, pal."

"To put it nicely, she’s an escort. If you’ve got the cash, she’ll spend the night. Pony up more, maybe she’ll even let you take her to dinner after."

He waggled his eyebrows, voice dripping with small-town mischief. "Heck, if you’re really lucky, she might let you buy her breakfast, too."

I let his sarcasm roll off me.

I was too busy replaying Cassie’s face in my mind, matching it to every memory of Savannah. My hand shook as I pulled out my phone and scrolled through old photos, desperate for proof I wasn’t losing it.

I found the last photo I’d taken of Savannah—her hair wild from the wind, eyes bright, laughing at something I’d said. My thumb hovered over the screen, the ache in my chest growing sharper.

The owner leaned over, trying to sneak a peek.

He craned his neck, squinting at the phone. "Let’s see what you got," he said, curiosity lighting his eyes. He whistled when he saw the picture.

"Well, look at you, snapping photos! But how’d you get that? Cassie’s scared of water—won’t go near the lake!"

He gave me a puzzled look, scratching his chin. "She always tells folks she can’t swim. Won’t even dip a toe in the creek, let alone the lake."

On the screen was the lake, deep blue, and Savannah—my fiancée—smiling. She’d vanished after we went out on the water together.

The photo was from that last day—Savannah standing on the dock, sunlight dancing on the water behind her. She looked carefree, alive. My chest tightened. I remembered the way she’d teased me about my life jacket, how she’d splashed me when I tried to act tough.

That day, the sun was blinding, the lake bright blue, but the waves were high. Locals said a storm might roll in, but that’s just Midwest summer. I shrugged it off. Now, I can’t stop thinking about how stupid that was.

The sky looked harmless, but the old-timers shook their heads, warning us. I laughed, thinking nothing could touch us. Looking back, I’d give anything to have listened. Sometimes it’s the little things that break you.

Savannah was always a better swimmer—she’d be halfway across the lake before I’d even gotten wet. I watched her bob in the waves, graceful as ever, fearless.

She grew up with summers on the water, at her grandparents’ place. She glided through the lake like she belonged there. I was always the cautious one, but with her, I felt braver. Or maybe just reckless.

After we came ashore, Savannah said she was thirsty. I told her to sunbathe and wait while I grabbed water. But when I got back, the storm had already trashed the beach—tents flipped, sleeping bags soaked, footprints erased.

I remembered the sky darkening, wind howling. I sprinted back, sand sticking to my legs, clutching the water bottle. When I reached our spot, everything was chaos—gear scattered, nothing where it should be. My stomach dropped out.

But Savannah was gone.

I shouted her name until my voice broke. I searched the beach, the woods, the parking lot. Nothing. It was like she’d never existed. That moment replayed every night—a nightmare on repeat.

I snapped back to the present, pointed at Cassie’s retreating figure, and asked the owner, "Where does she live?"

My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. I felt a jolt of panic—like if I didn’t act now, I’d lose her all over again. The owner raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my desperation. I could feel sweat trickling down my spine. God, I must’ve looked pathetic.

He gave me a knowing, helpless smile, smirking as he said, "It’s not like you haven’t been there before, so why pretend?"

He winked, like we shared some inside joke. I wanted to argue, but Cassie was already slipping away. No time for pride.

I didn’t bother arguing. Seeing Cassie Monroe about to vanish around the corner, I yanked out my wallet and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill.

My hands shook as I counted out the cash. I’d have emptied my bank account if it meant getting closer to Savannah.

"Here, take it!"

The owner’s grin widened as he scribbled an address on the back of a produce receipt.

He handed it over, folding the slip with care. "You didn’t get this from me," he said, winking. I nodded, tucking it into my pocket before breaking into a run. My heart hammered in my chest.