Chapter 1: The Morning After Death

Early in the morning, I pushed open the doors to Maple Ridge Clinic—my hands cold, my mind racing. I wasn’t ready, not really, but I told myself I was. I was there to collect Dr. Grant’s body, though every step forward felt like I was walking into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

The dawn air was still cold, the sky just starting to turn pink over the rooftops of Main Street. Too early for this. Too cold. My hands shook a little as I gripped the handle, the familiar weight of my old key ring pressing against my palm. The bell above the door gave a tired jingle as I stepped inside, heart pounding with the kind of dread that makes you wish you could turn around and walk back into your dreams.

Last night, when I left, I’d watched him drink a mug of herbal tea. That mug... it held something deadly.

The memory stuck with me, cold and heavy. I’d seen Dr. Grant cradle that old, chipped mug—blue and white, with a crack running down the side. His hands were steady as always. I remember thinking how calm he looked, the steam curling up around his face, eyes lost in thought. If I’d known what was coming, I might’ve stayed longer, or maybe I would’ve said something—anything at all.

I opened the door, and there he was—Dr. Grant, sprawled on the floor. The place was a mess—chairs knocked over, medical supplies scattered everywhere.

The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mixed with something metallic. My boots crunched on tongue depressors. A half-empty pill bottle rolled under the counter. Dr. Grant’s white coat was twisted beneath him, one arm flung out as if he’d tried to reach the phone. The room felt colder than it should have, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and won’t let go.

I checked for breathing. Nothing. Then I called 911.

My hands fumbled for my cell—my old flip phone nearly slipped from my grasp. I pressed my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse—nothing. I forced myself to breathe, forced myself to speak clearly to the dispatcher, repeating the address I’d said a hundred times before. But this time, my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Soon, police and neighbors swarmed Maple Ridge Clinic on Main Street. Police tape went up. Neighbors leaned out from their porches, trying to catch a glimpse.

The street filled with flashing lights and the low hum of radios. Mrs. Carter, still in her robe, clutched her coffee and stared from her stoop. Old Mr. Franklin shuffled over, cane in hand, trying to piece together what had happened. Main Street hadn’t seen this much excitement since the Fourth of July parade back in ‘06. I stood off to the side, the whole world feeling blurry around the edges. I just wanted to disappear.

When they wrapped up at the scene, they took me to the station for more questioning.

The officers were polite, but there was an edge in their voices—like they were trying to see right through me. The station was colder than the clinic, the walls lined with faded posters about neighborhood watch and missing pets. They offered me lukewarm coffee, but I just wrapped my hands around the cup for warmth, barely tasting it.

Three years. That’s how long I’d been cleaning Maple Ridge Clinic. I knew every table and chair in that place like the back of my hand—and I knew Dr. Grant, too.

Every Tuesday and Friday, I’d mop those same scuffed floors, wipe down old waiting room magazines, dust the certificates. I’d watched Dr. Grant patch up everything from skinned knees to broken hearts, always with that gentle smile. The clinic felt like a second home, and Dr. Grant, in his own way, felt like family.

During the questioning, a young officer came in, leaned over, and whispered something to the detective across from me. He handed over a slip of paper. I had no idea what was on it.

His eyes flickered as he read. His jaw tightened, just a notch. The room felt even smaller, the air heavy with something unspoken. I watched the two of them exchange a look, the kind that says, "We’ve got something."

Right then, I felt his eyes on me shift—scrutiny, suspicion.

It was like a switch flipped. His tone sharpened. His questions got shorter. I could feel the heat of his stare, weighing every word I said. I’d seen that look before, back when folks whispered about who’d stolen the church’s donation box. It’s the look that says you’re not just a witness anymore.

I wasn’t surprised or scared. Not anymore. Some things are obvious—like a wolf’s howl at midnight. A little digging, and the police could find out plenty.

Honestly, I’d half expected this. In a town like ours, secrets always bubble up. I kept my voice steady, refusing to let my hands tremble. There’s no hiding from the past, not here.

Sure enough, the questions changed. I could feel it coming.

The detective leaned forward, his elbows on the table. His voice dropped, the way folks do when they’re about to ask something ugly.

"Mr. Dawson, don’t you resent Dr. Grant?"

"Why would I?"

I tried to keep my voice steady, but I could hear the edge creeping in. There’s only so many times you can be asked about your pain before it starts to wear thin.

"He killed your son."

The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. I felt my jaw clench, but I didn’t look away. I’d heard worse, and I’d survived it.

"If not for him, my son... he would’ve died a long time ago."

My voice was quiet, but steady. The truth of it settled between us, undeniable. I met the detective’s eyes, letting him see that I meant every word.

I was telling the truth. Maybe to outsiders, Dr. Grant had helped me and hurt me. But in my heart, I owed him more than I could ever repay.

People on the outside saw only the tragedy. They didn’t know the whole story. They hadn’t watched Dr. Grant give Luke hope, hadn’t seen him work late into the night, searching for another remedy. My gratitude ran deeper than any blame ever could.

"Mr. Dawson, do you know Sam Howell?"

I shook my head. "Never heard of him."

I kept my face blank, careful not to let any confusion show. Names get tossed around in this town. But that one? Never heard it.

"Then why did he send you that much money?"

"You’ll have to ask him. I honestly don’t know."

I shrugged, spreading my hands. The truth was, I barely understood it myself. Money had a way of finding trouble in Maple Ridge, and I’d never trusted a windfall that came without warning.

The detective gave me a little smile, like he was warning me. "He’s Big Wade’s godson. You’d better be careful—money from those people doesn’t come easy."

His words landed like a stone in my gut. I felt it settle there, heavy. Everyone knew Big Wade—he was the kind of man who could buy half the county and still have change left over. I nodded, letting the warning sink in. Trouble from that crowd had a way of sticking around.

The police still suspected me, but with no evidence, they had no choice but to let me go.

After a few more questions and a lot of sideways glances, they handed me my coat. Told me I was free to go—for now. I didn’t believe them.

As I was leaving, I got a parting shot: "Mr. Dawson, I’ll be keeping an eye on you."

The detective’s voice echoed down the hallway, more threat than promise. I just tipped my cap and gave him a half-smile, the kind you give when you know there’s nothing left to say.