Chapter 4: Trapped in Maple Heights

Fifteen minutes later, we were both panting at the door of a hair salon.

The building looked tired—paint peeling, a neon sign in the window flickering. The air was thick with the scent of chemicals and something faintly sour. I tried to catch my breath, nerves jangling.

I looked at Mike Chandler in surprise. Other than the sign reading "hair salon," nothing about this place said barbershop. I didn’t expect the door to be half-closed in broad daylight—zero interest in walk-ins.

The windows were tinted, grime streaking the glass. A faded OPEN sign hung crookedly. The whole place radiated unease, like it was daring you to come inside. I swallowed, trying to steady myself.

Mike Chandler looked confident, quickly pointing inside. "Go in, she’s inside!"

He gave me a reassuring nod, pushing me toward the door. "Don’t be shy. She’s waiting for you."

I peeked through the crack of the half-closed door, a bit suspicious. "It’s pitch black inside. Are you sure Savannah is in there?"

The darkness inside was thick, almost suffocating. I hesitated, nerves jangling. Mike rolled his eyes, shoving me gently toward the entrance.

Mike Chandler patted my shoulder. "My info is solid—I live on my reputation. Go on in and meet her. If anything happens, just yell—I’ll be right outside, I won’t leave!"

He flashed a toothy grin, trying to put me at ease. "I got your back, buddy. You can trust me."

He looked at me like I was being ungrateful.

"I’m only helping you because I see how much you care about her. Otherwise, who would bother in this heat?"

He wiped his brow, glancing up at the blazing sun. "You’re lucky I’m such a nice guy."

He had a point. He seemed honest enough, so I decided to trust him—for now.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. Maybe this was finally it—the end of my search. I squared my shoulders and reached for the door.

With my heart pounding, I reached out and pushed open the hair salon door.

The door creaked, the hinges groaning. I stepped inside, heart rattling against my ribs. The air was thick with the smell of hair dye and something metallic. My palms were slick with sweat.

As soon as I entered, a loud bang echoed behind me—the door slammed shut!

The noise shot through me like a gunshot. I spun around, panic spiking. The door wouldn’t budge. My breath quickened, chest tight.

Was this some kind of trap?

The thought hit me—absurd and terrifying. I grabbed for the handle, but it wouldn’t move. My hands shook. Every instinct screamed at me to run.

I realized I’d been tricked and quickly tried to retreat. But it was too late!

Footsteps thundered behind me. Before I could turn, something hard smashed into the back of my head. Pain exploded. I crashed to the floor.

My vision blurred, the world spinning. I tried to call out, but my mouth wouldn’t work. Darkness closed in around me, thick and suffocating.

Before losing consciousness, I heard a familiar voice:

"The fourteenth one, idiot!"

The words echoed in my ears, mocking and cruel. Then everything went black.

When I woke up, my hands and feet were tightly bound, my legs cinched with brutal knots. I couldn’t move an inch.

The ropes bit into my skin. I struggled, uselessly. The room was dim, shadows flickering. My head throbbed, blood sticky at my hairline.

My forehead was clammy, and the smell of blood hit my nose—it had to be from the blow earlier.

I could taste iron. My heart pounded, panic crawling up my throat. I forced myself to breathe, not to pass out again.

I tried to shout, but my mouth was taped shut! The tape was tight—I couldn’t even moisten it with saliva. All I could do was struggle desperately, making muffled sounds.

I screamed into the gag, the sound pitiful and small. My shoulders ached, muscles straining. Terror gnawed at my gut.

"People always say it’s easy to fleece women and kids."

A shadow moved in the doorway. The voice was familiar—smug, cruel. I recognized it: Mike Chandler.

A figure strolled in, getting closer and closer.

He swaggered over, a nasty smile on his face. He crouched, meeting my eyes.

"Turns out it’s just as easy to fleece men chasing after women."

He laughed—a flat, ugly sound. He reached out, patting my cheek like I was a dog who’d lost his way.

Mike Chandler squatted in front of me and patted my face.

"Hey buddy, before coming to Maple Heights, didn’t you check what kind of people make a living here—and what happens to outsiders who lose their ID around here?"

His voice was soft, almost friendly, but the threat was real. He rifled through my pockets, pulling out my wallet like he’d done it a thousand times.

As he spoke, he took my wallet from my pocket and opened it. He took out the photo of Savannah and me and stared at it for a long time.

He held the photo up to the light, squinting at Savannah’s face. His lips curled into a sneer.

The heavyset man clicked his tongue, dismissive.

"Especially when she looks like this Savannah!"

He whistled, shaking his head. "You boys never learn."

Then, right in front of me, Mike Chandler made a mocking, obscene gesture—flicking his tongue out, leering, like he was daring me to do something about it.

The gesture was childish and cruel, but there was nothing I could do. My world shrank to the pounding in my skull and the sick certainty that I was utterly, hopelessly trapped.