Chapter 3: Maple Heights Shadows

I slipped off my shoes and picked out the essential oil for Mr. Wallace’s massage.

His apartment’s on the sixth floor of an old brick building, the kind you find in Midwest neighborhoods. The radiator clanked like it was fighting off another Chicago winter, and the scent of cinnamon rolls from Mrs. Gilroy downstairs crept under the door. Sunlight spilled in through big windows.

From the living room, you could see the sign for Maple Heights Books. Mr. Wallace once told me if you walked a mile or two and turned the corner, you’d find his old college. He taught there his whole life.

The ritual started: he’d fold his glasses, set them next to a battered copy of The New Yorker, and always thank me before I even touched his back. The couch was covered in a plaid throw that smelled like fresh laundry, and there was an old Yankees mug on the table, half-full of cold tea.

“Natalie, let me tell you a local story today. I found this case in some old newspapers while sorting my things—it’s pretty interesting.” His voice carried that teacherly weight, filling the quiet room.

I grinned. “Yeah, sure, hit me with it, Mr. Wallace.”

Every session, besides swapping stories about our lives, he liked to tell me about legal cases—murders, mysteries, headlines from years ago.

I can only fake interest for so long, but it beats awkward silence. Sometimes I keep my face polite, but my mind drifts to the grocery list—eggs, coffee, and maybe a bottle of cheap rosé.

“This case happened right here, not far from us.” He pointed out the window. “Just past Maple Heights Books, at the school gate. The suspect died right there.”

He tapped the glass, leaving a faint fingerprint, and for a second, I could almost see the story reflected in his eyes—a memory that still haunted him.