Chapter 1 The Inciting Incident
the inciting incident [trope]
the moment in a romance novel when fate decides, “let’s shake things up”
“Rooo.”
“Shut up,” I croak. Sherlock’s version of a meow is the last thing I want to hear after two hours of sleep.
“Rooo.”
“I said shut up.”
Sherlock’s tail tickles the tip of my nose, then his butt is on my face. “Rooo!” he insists.
“You can’t be that hungry.” I push him off my face, then blink one eye open and find his yellow-green eyes staring back at me, unimpressed. I scratch the back of his neck, my fingers sinking into the black fur. “I don’t care—too tired.”
I close my eyes again, but I can feel him staring in that judgmental way only a cat can manage, so with a groan, I drag myself up into a seated position. I guess I’m also late for work, so I can’t resent him too much.
I grab my phone and scroll through the notifications. Nothing. I stumble out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s shirt. Sherlock brushes against my leg, yowling as I head to the kitchen. Once he’s fed, I fumble for the coffee machine, only to find it blinking “low water.”
Great.
I fill it, waiting impatiently as it burbles, then pour myself half a mug. I grab my phone again and check through the notifications I’ve gotten in the last ten minutes—none. Maybe I should text him.
Yeah. You know what? I can. I will.
I open up my conversation with Ethan and stare at the screen.
The last bubble is green—sent by me—and so is the one before.
The last message he sent reads “Bet,” which left me puzzled for a good five minutes.
It’s like he’s learned a new language since he turned fourteen.
I hesitate for a while longer, then type.
Scarlett
Hey! It’s been a while. How’s school?
Nah. He won’t answer that. I glance at the haphazardly hung poster that reads, “Dysfunction: Just another word for family,” with a doodle of a crooked house, then study the screen again.
Scarlett
It’s my birthday! I’d love to talk if you have the time. Maybe after school? Or we could grab dinner. Or lunch. Or anything, really. If you’re free! No pressure. Love you!
I run a hand over my face, delete almost everything and send:
Scarlett
I’d love to chat if you’re free!
Sherlock lets out a disapproving “Roo,” his eyes trained on me as I shuffle to the bathroom, tripping over my half-zipped pants and dodging the piles of laundry lining the floor. I stuff my phone and keys into my purse and bolt for the door, praying I remembered deodorant.
The warm summer air carries the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. The sun kisses my cheeks, making me loosen my cardigan as I descend the steps. But the peace of the suburbs is quickly interrupted by the neighbor across the street.
“Scarlett!” Mrs. Prattle—Brattle, actually, though everyone knows her as Mrs. Prattle—calls as she hurries over. Despite her age, she’s as spry as ever, with her short silver hair pinned back and deep wrinkles that crinkle when she’s gossiping. “Did you hear about John Gray, dear?”
Looking for my car keys in the impossible mess of my oversize handbag, I side-glance at the Grays’ place, right beside mine. “Hey, Mrs. Pr—Brattle.” Keys in hand, I point at my car. “Sorry, I’m late for work.”
“I would have never imagined,” she says, reaching my side with a determined step.
She falls into pace with me as I walk to the car, her foldable shopping cart rattling behind her.
“You know, Maria—the hairdresser with the tattoos—said she saw him the day before. Looked as healthy as a horse, she said.”
“Uh-huh.” I open the car door, then check the time on my phone. “Really, Mrs. Brattle, I—”
“Did you see the undertaker? Handsome fella, huh?” she continues, turning to my old gray Toyota.
“Undertaker?” I freeze. “You don’t mean…”
“Oh, John Gray passed last week, darling. They just found him dead in his home yesterday.”
What? “I’m so… sorry,” I say almost automatically. Truth be told, I must be the only person in town who never liked that man. It always felt like his affable smile was nothing more than a mask.
Still, he’s been my next-door neighbor all my life.
“I wonder if his son will show up for the funeral,” Mrs. Prattle says.
My shoulders stiffen instantly. “He won’t.” Noticing the curl of her lips, I casually flip my hair off my shoulder. “I mean, I don’t know, of course, but he hasn’t been around for so long that…”
Her eyes glimmer, the unmistakable sign of gossip being detected. “I didn’t know you two were close.”
“We weren’t,” I rush out. “We never even spoke a word to each other.” Okay, that might be suspiciously exaggerated. “Besides ‘hello’ and whatnot.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, I’m—” I point at the car.
“Go, dear. Go,” she says, though she doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she lowers her voice, leaning in closer. “But don’t think I didn’t notice what day it is.” She takes a small envelope out of her bag and hands it over.
“Mrs. Brattle,” I half-heartedly complain.
“I know, I know. You don’t celebrate your birthday. But it’s just a small gift, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Pretty sure that means the whole town already knows.
She waves off my thank-you, and I drop onto the seat, then check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Good God. My bangs are a brown tangled mess, and yesterday’s eyeliner is smudged.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it into some semblance of order. Setting the envelope down, I take out my concealer and mascara.
Once I’m as presentable as I can manage, I start the car and pull out of the parking spot, the old piece of junk creaking as if it can barely sustain its weight.
I turn on the stereo system and connect my phone. It’s Friday, which means the latest episode of my podcast aired last night. I open Spotify, and my shoulders relax as soon as the familiar intro music plays.
One episode a week for half a decade, and this feeling doesn’t get old.
Welcome to Murders & Manuscripts, the podcast where we delve into the darkest corners of crime fiction.
I’m your host, Scarlett Moore, and today we’re unraveling the chilling tale of The Thornwood Butcher by Cameron Slate, a story that will send shivers down your spine and keep you on the edge of your seat.
Thornwood is a quaint village, the kind you’d see in postcards—peaceful, picturesque, and seemingly perfect. But beneath this serene facade lies a dark, twisted secret waiting to be uncovered.
Our story begins with a grisly discovery: Dr. Margaret Fairchild, a respected historian who had been kidnapped during a stroll with her dog, is found dead in her cottage.
Her body is a horrifying sight—tied to a chair, her mouth filled with dirt and wildflowers, her throat slit, and her eyes replaced with small wooden animal figures.
Scattered around her are blood-spattered manuscripts and artifacts.
On the wall, a message written in blood: “The past never dies.”
My phone beeps with an incoming text, which causes the Bluetooth connection to stutter, so I give the stereo the usual swat.
—shocking murder has rocked our small town of Willowbrook, Connecticut.
I lower the volume, cursing the Jurassic car for switching to the radio, before I register the words of the host.
Catherine Blake, a professor at UML, was found dead in her home late last night. Details are still emerging, but police sources describe a scene too gruesome to believe.
A murder? Here?
I turn up the volume, my curiosity piqued.
Blake was last seen walking her dog. When her daughter called and received no answer, she went to her mother’s residence and found her body.
Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. This murder has sent shock waves through our small community, and everyone is advised to stay vigilant.
When someone honks behind me, I realize the light has turned green, and I resume driving, thoughts still scattered.
There’s hardly any crime in Willowbrook.
A town with only five thousand people, where we all know one another, isn’t supposed to have murders.
This will affect the community—the sense of safety that’s always been so strong here, the way neighbors leave their doors unlocked and let their kids play outside until dusk.
I drive all the way to the office, hardly aware of what’s around me until I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine.
After fetching my bag, I enter the building and check my messages, unable to help the slight disappointment that settles in my chest when I notice it’s not Ethan.
Paige
Free tonight? We could use an extra at the Single Mingle event.
“Liar,” I mumble as I wave at the receptionist, then rush into the elevator just before the door closes.
Scarlett
That so? And it’s not a ploy to get me to celebrate my birthday?
Paige
Omg, that’s true! Happy birthday!
“The worst liar in the world,” I say at my phone. She does this all the time—drags me to one of her parties with the promise of work, then insists I have fun instead. It reminds me of why she’s one of only three friends I have: friends are a lot of work.
Scarlett
Fine. Send me the address. Since it’s not a birthday party, I’ll show up in sweats.
Paige
Sounds great. See you tonight.
Liar.
I walk up the stairs and enter Booked It headquarters, where the air hums with energy and the faint scent of coffee lingers.
The host of Space & Storycraft, Sarah, waves at me from behind her desk, cluttered with sci-fi books and a half-empty coffee cup, and in the recording studio, the soft glow of monitors peeks through the open door.
Damien, host of Wizards & Words, looks up, and as my gaze narrows to the farthest corner of the room, I notice my favorite sound engineer—and the only one I know—Theo.
I move on to Celeste’s office, the last door on the right.
“Celeste?” I ask as I knock on the half-open door.
“Yes?” I open the door to see Celeste’s sleek dark hair, cut in a sharp bob, as she bends over her computer. “Scarlett! Come in, come in.”