Chapter 2: The Trap Tightens

While I’m silently waiting for a chance, my phone vibrates softly. The buzzing against my thigh nearly gives me a heart attack.

Someone’s sent me a text. I check the volume is off, then slide the phone out with trembling hands.

It’s from my buddy Marcus:

"Where are you working today? Any good leads? Send a few my way."

Marcus is in the same line of work as me. We often share targets. He’s always hungry for action, always one step away from getting caught, but somehow, he’s never slipped up. Not yet.

Sometimes, you can hit several apartments in one building. There’s an art to it—timing, blending in, never drawing attention. Marcus is good at that.

If I can’t handle it alone, I call Marcus to help. He’s got a van and a box of tools that would make the A-Team jealous.

I quickly reply:

"Bad timing—the owner came home, I’m trapped inside."

Marcus replies soon after:

"You got caught in the act?"

"No, I’m hiding in the closet. She hasn’t found me yet."

I use my phone to snap a picture through the crack in the closet door of the woman sitting on the couch, and send it to Marcus. The image is blurry, but you can see the edge of her face, the outline of her ponytail.

"Dude, she’s cute. You sure you wanna just rob her?"

I roll my eyes. Typical Marcus—always joking when things get dicey.

"Focus, man. I need a distraction, not a date."

I send him the woman’s address. I know he’ll move fast—he owes me for that job last month in Edgewater.

"Seriously, I’ll buy you a drink tonight."

Marcus replies, "On my way," then nothing more. He’s probably already halfway to his truck.

The woman tosses her half-eaten apple. She’s restless now, pacing the room.

Then she walks over to the wine rack, takes out two wine glasses, and pours two glasses of red wine. The bottle glugs softly, a weirdly cozy sound.

I freeze—why two glasses? My mind starts spinning, trying to piece it together.

And I see her pour sleeping pills into one of the glasses. Not just a few—she dumps the whole bottle in. My stomach twists.

A whole bottle of sleeping pills. The stuff clouds up in the wine, swirling into a purple haze.

She sets both glasses on the coffee table, then looks at her watch. Her fingers tap a nervous beat. She’s definitely waiting for someone.

I wonder if she does this every Tuesday. If I hadn’t broken in, would anyone have known?

Just then, I hear a knock at the door. It’s a sharp, impatient sound—three quick raps.

I wonder if it could be Marcus. But my phone hasn’t buzzed again, and Marcus always calls before he shows up. He’s not stupid enough to walk in cold.

But he couldn’t have gotten here that fast. The traffic on Maple Avenue is always murder at this hour.

The woman looks toward the door, pauses for two seconds, then slowly walks over and opens it. She peeks through the peephole first, just in case. She’s cautious. I watch her face—blank, unreadable.

A middle-aged man stands there—it’s not Marcus. He’s wearing a suit, a little too tight around the waist. His hair is slicked back, and he’s holding a bouquet of roses and smiling at her. Smarmy, like he thinks he owns the place.

"Emily, have you been waiting long?"

He hands her the flowers, and she shyly leads him inside. The act is weird—like they’re both playing parts in some bad romance movie. He leans in for a kiss she dodges, her smile not reaching her eyes. Even from the closet, I can tell this isn’t love.

"Come in, I just bought some new red wine. Give it a try."

She pulls him in and locks the door with the key. That detail makes my skin crawl.

Arm in arm, she brings him to the table, then hands him the glass of wine with the sleeping pills. She keeps her eyes on him, barely blinking.

The man drinks it all in one gulp, then starts groping her. I have to fight the urge to look away. This is turning into a nightmare.

I’m hiding in the closet, feeling all kinds of complicated emotions. Mostly fear, a dash of disgust, and a healthy dose of "what the hell is happening?"

I only meant to break in and steal something. I didn’t sign up for this. My hands clench into fists.

Now I’m witnessing this. The air feels thick, heavy with tension and something sour.

The key thing is, she drugged him. My instincts scream at me—this isn’t a lovers’ spat. This is something else entirely.

If things go wrong, I might become a witness to a murder. I swallow hard, feeling the bile rise. This is way above my pay grade.

I don’t know how long it takes, but soon the man passes out. His head slumps back, mouth slack. He looks ridiculous, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

The woman drags a plastic tub from the kitchen. The sound of it scraping across the floor sends chills down my spine.

A huge plastic tub—big enough to fit a person. I recognize it instantly—the kind you buy at Home Depot for moving or, apparently, body disposal.

She places the tub at the foot of the bed, right in front of the closet. I can see everything, every twitch, every muscle in her jaw.

Then she stuffs the man into the tub and strips off his clothes. It’s clinical, practiced—like she’s done it before. I cover my mouth to keep from gagging.

What makes my hair stand on end is, she brings out an electric saw and a kitchen knife. The tools glint under the ceiling light, cold and merciless.

What happens next, I’ll never forget as long as I live. The whine of the saw is deafening, and I see flecks of red spatter the closet door.

Almost right in front of my eyes, she dismembers the man. Her face never changes—calm, methodical. It’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

The buzzing of the electric saw makes my scalp crawl. My breath hitches, and I press my back harder against the closet wall. I bite down on my knuckles, praying she won’t hear me lose it. The metallic whine of the saw drills straight into my skull.

The blood pooling in the tub makes me want to throw up. I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to retch.

She puts the smaller pieces of the body into plastic bags, then one by one stores them in the freezer on the balcony. No amount of cherry Glade can cover the raw, iron stink seeping through the apartment. I hear the freezer door creak open, then slam shut again and again.

At this point, I don’t care about anything else—I just want to escape as fast as possible. My heart’s thumping so loud, I think I might pass out.

But, fatally, the closet door seems to be stuck. No matter how I push, it won’t open. I’m trapped. Panic sets in, cold and relentless.

Just then, my phone vibrates again. The sound is like a gunshot in the silence.

It’s a message from Marcus:

"How’s it going over there?"

I quickly reply:

"The closet door won’t open. I’m trapped."

"Did the woman find you?"

"Not yet. That woman is a psycho."

Marcus doesn’t reply. I quickly ask:

"Where are you now?"

"I’m already here."

"Here? Where?"

"I’m... above your head."

As soon as I read that, my heart seizes up. My breath catches in my throat, and the hair on my arms stands on end.

I suddenly look up, using the light coming through the crack in the closet door. My phone trembles in my grip, screen flickering.

A twisted, ferocious face is staring down at me from above. The image burns itself into my brain before I can process it.

It’s Marcus’s face. Eyes wide, wild, bulging. Lips drawn back over his teeth.

He doesn’t move, eyes wide open in fury, mouth agape. A grotesque, silent scream.

Through the gap in the hanging clothes, I see a rope cutting into his neck. Bruised, swollen, unmistakable. The knot is expertly tied, like something out of a cop show.

The other end is tied to the closet’s hanging rod. I follow the rope up, numb with horror.

I can hardly believe it.

Marcus is already dead, hanging inside the same closet where I’m hiding. My only friend, my partner in crime—gone, swinging above me like a dark, final warning. My legs go numb. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled whimper. The closet feels like it’s closing in, air thick with death and betrayal.

His corpse has been right behind me all along. I bite down on a scream, tears pricking my eyes. The closet won’t budge. The woman is still out there, and now Marcus is swinging above me, his dead eyes fixed on mine. I realize, with icy certainty, that the next body in this closet could be mine.