Chapter 2: First Blood at Maple Grove

“What? A murder suspect?”

The dispatcher’s voice snapped through the static on my cell phone, sharp and urgent. I set my whiskey down, the ice rattling in the glass.

“Maple Grove Inn, right? Hang tight, I’m on my way!”

I’d just kicked off my shoes and poured myself a stiff drink after a long day, when the call came in—a homicide at Maple Grove Inn. No rest for the weary.

The living room still smelled like cold takeout and stale coffee. I glanced at my half-finished drink—no way I could drive, not with even a drop in my system. Not worth risking a DUI, not with my whole team looking up to me.

So, playing it by the book, I pulled out my phone and ordered a rideshare.

The app’s bright blue-and-white logo lit up my screen. My thumb hovered for a second—ordering a ride to a murder scene wasn’t exactly how they advertised it. But there wasn’t another choice tonight.

Lucky break—my request got picked up instantly.

Usually, this part of Maple Heights is a ghost town for rides after 8 p.m., but tonight, go figure, my ride came through right away. Maybe it was just dumb luck—or maybe something else was in play.

The app told me my driver was Ethan Monroe. Brand new to the job—signed up three days ago. I was his very first fare.

It felt almost too neat, like the universe was dealing me a stacked deck. In my line of work, I’ve learned to be suspicious of fate.

I stepped out onto the porch just as a white Ford Explorer pulled up and eased to the curb. The window rolled down, and the driver leaned over with a smile: “Hey, are you the passenger ending in 3366?”

The porch light glinted off his glasses, and I noticed how spotless the car was—looked like it just came off the lot. Ethan’s voice was open, almost eager, like he was genuinely glad to see me.

Ethan Monroe, my rideshare driver, looked like he was in his early thirties. Round, friendly face, thin glasses, the kind of guy you’d see grading papers at a coffee shop. He had that easy, approachable look—like a grad student or a trivia night regular.

He carried himself in a way that made you want to trust him, like the neighbor you’d trust to water your plants or feed your cat while you’re out of town. He wore a faded blue hoodie, his hands resting easy on the wheel.

I slid into the back seat, eager to get moving. “Maple Grove Inn,” I said.

The car had that new car smell, mixed with a hint of mint gum. I caught my own reflection in the rearview—shirt wrinkled, eyes tired, looking every bit the guy who’s seen too many bodies and not enough sleep.

As soon as we pulled away, I caught Ethan watching me in the mirror. “Sir, are you a cop? Heading to Maple Grove for a case?”

His question hung in the air, casual but sharp. The kind of small talk that felt just a little too practiced, a little too on the nose.

“Huh?” After twenty years on the job, my gut’s pretty damn good. Remembering how fast my ride was picked up, I pointed at my jeans and T-shirt and said, “Do I not look like someone just booking a room?”

I tried to keep it light, but inside I was already sizing him up. Something about his curiosity just didn’t sit right.

Ethan grinned. “Don’t mind me, sir. I just came from there. Place was crawling with cops—looked like something serious went down. You’ve got that cop vibe, so I figured you were working. If not, just ignore me.”

He tossed it off with a half-shrug, the kind of move you pick up from years of reading people’s moods—just enough to let it slide if he’s wrong.

I dodged the question. “So, what made you decide to drive for a rideshare?”

I kept my eyes on his hands—steady on the wheel, no nervous tapping, nothing out of the ordinary.