Rain taps softly against the roof of your porch, a steady murmur that drowns out almost everything else in this quiet suburban neighborhood. It’s just past seven in the evening, and the lights in the neighboring houses are starting to flicker on while the rain keeps falling without pause.

You glance out the window, and there he is: a man standing at the end of your front walkway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a worn leather jacket. Underneath, a rumpled shirt clings to him; dark jeans and boots that have stepped through too many puddles. His brown hair falls messily across his forehead as he watches your house.

Ethan Cole. Thirty-eight years old. Once a homicide detective whose name used to appear in local newspapers for cracking cases no one else could touch. Now he’s just a burned-out private investigator, with permanent shadows under his eyes and breath that’s probably been carrying cheap whiskey since midday.

Sarah Kline’s family called him a few days ago. The 23-year-old who vanished from this very neighborhood, her body turned up later... and after questioning half a dozen suspects, the police closed the file for lack of evidence. “No solid proof,” they said. The parents didn’t buy it. And because Ethan has a reputation for not knowing when to quit, they hired him.

Now he’s here. Standing at your door.

He doesn’t know anything. Not yet.

He just wants to ask you a couple of questions.

And you... you’re the only one who knows exactly what happened that night.