When the last fare of the night turns up dead in her backseat, a Sri Lankan American taxi driver works off the clock to clear her name in this mystery novel by debut author Yosha Gunasekera.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Midnight Taxi by Yosha Gunasekera, which releases on February 10th 2026.
Siriwathi Perera doesn’t quite know where she’s going in life. She never expected to be a taxicab driver in New York City, struggling to make ends meet and still living with her parents at twenty-eight. The true-crime podcasts that keep Siri company as she drives don’t do much to make up for the legal career she imagined for herself, or the brother she’s grieving.
When public defender Amaya Fernando gets into her cab, they make a quick connection through their shared Sri Lankan roots. Siri, whose social circle is limited to her grade-school best friend, Alex, thinks things might finally be looking up with this new potential friendship. But she’s suddenly dropped into her own true crime when she discovers her next passenger murdered in the backseat, and she has to call Amaya sooner than she’d expected.
Pinned as the obvious and only suspect, and desperate to clear her name, Siri chases down leads across the boroughs of New York City with Amaya’s help. But with her court date looming, they have just five days to find out who really killed the midnight passenger—or Siri’s life will be over before she can even truly live it.
From Chapter 2 of The Midnight Taxi by Yosha Gunasekera
I cruise through Brooklyn. The main roads are crowded as usual with late-night revelers and cars. Some bros stumble out of bars as they begin to make their last calls. I eye several people wobbling like toddlers who just learned to walk and I’m pretty sure they are about to puke. I mentally send thoughts of camaraderie and strength to whichever car share service picks those people up. It might be me tomorrow.
I hear a ping and look down. It’s a text from Alex. Let’s catch up.
My guilt gnaws at me. He’s been checking on me consistently since the worst day of my life and I can’t even return his calls in a timely manner. Alex and I couldn’t be more different and if we met today I’m positive we’d hate each other. Good thing we met almost twenty years ago where merciless bullying drove us together and now we’re trauma-bonded for life. It’s also given me plenty of time to get used to his inability to make proper plans and his insistence that women love receiving shirtless photos of him.
I slow at a red light and a group of dangerously drunk people begin to moon and flash us. I look back at my customer, who doesn’t stir. I look back in time to see one man even boldly reach through the open window of the taxi and grab at my passenger in the back.
“Stop!” I yell, preparing to get out. I’ve practiced an authoritative voice that’s one octave lower than my normal speaking voice for just these instances. The drunk man simply runs away. This is why I like my windows up, I think to myself with a smug satisfaction. Customers always right, my ass. I look through the murky divider.
“Are you okay?”
The man doesn’t respond, and I’m grateful that he’s a deep sleeper.
I continue to drive and at the next intersection, a motorcycle slides up next to the taxi as I stop at a red light. Whoever is riding it is revving the engine, and I look away in annoyance. Tell me you’re trying to compensate for something without telling me… I turn up my podcast even louder to drown it out and am lost in it for a few seconds when the light turns green. Instead of traffic moving there’s some commotion up ahead and despite the late hour no one has any qualms about laying on their horns. I stick my head outside the window to see what’s going on and a few seconds later the traffic starts again.
I turn onto a quiet residential street where there are barely any cars. Driving past the rows of houses, almost all with their lights off, I try to imagine the people inside. I sometimes imagine myself inside, with a husband and children, all of us having dinner together and talking about our days. Maybe my brother is visiting with his family. A long-lost rich uncle is there too, about to bequeath me millions of dollars…
I look back to the road in time to observe the four-way intersection just ahead. I have a green light but a woman stumbles onto the crosswalk right ahead of me.
I hit my brakes hard and slam on my horn even louder. In New York City, it’s illegal to honk your car horn unless you’re warning others of an immediate danger. This situation qualifies. Jump out of the way, the voice inside of me screams. I watch in horror as my car stops within inches of hitting the woman. Is she maybe drunk? Didn’t she see me? Didn’t she even hear the screeching tires? She suddenly falls down as I stop in front of her.
Oh my God, I scream to myself. I don’t think I hit her, but I throw open my car door to check on the woman as if I did. I walk several feet towards her, half-expecting to see my first dead body.
“Are you okay?”
I help her up, but once I do, she runs away as quickly as her stumbling legs will allow her, the shock of almost getting hit jolting her from her slow walk. Despite only seeing her for a second, I don’t think I can ever forget the face of someone I nearly ran over. I stand for a moment in the intersection and try to slow my breathing as my brother had taught me years ago. My hands are shaking as I walk towards my car. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeat to myself as I take a deep breath. Despite my years of driving, I’ve never had such a close call.
Death still feels so close to me. I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand as I try to steady myself. Come on! I chide myself. I’m stronger than this. I dig my nails, badly in need of a manicure, into my palm. Climbing into my taxi, I then remember the man in the back seat of my vehicle. From his outline through the dirty partition, it seems the man is still sleeping soundly despite all the commotion.
“I’m sorry about that,” I call out to the man, just in case he saw it all transpire or hurt himself from the sudden stop. Hearing no response, I slowly make my way towards JFK and focus on steadying my breathing and looking, wide-eyed, at every intersection with intense scrutiny. I sincerely hope he hasn’t popped a sleeping pill this early. He needs to wait to do that until he’s actually on the plane. I drive at a snail’s pace knowing my passenger has hours to spare before his flight. At least this man won’t be able to leave me a one-star review like I’m a hotel where he got bed bugs.
The man turned off the taxi television at some point, so I drive in silence which I hate. Being left with my own thoughts isn’t something I want to do. But I’m also unwilling to restart my podcast for fear it will divert my attention from the road. Despite my best efforts, my breathing is still rapid and my knuckles are pale from squeezing the steering wheel so tightly.
I pull towards the bright lights of JFK. It is nearly quarter past two, but there are still a few cars dropping off and picking up passengers. After what happened, I decide that this is my last ride of the day. I need to go home. As we approach the terminal, I look in my rear-view mirror hoping the man is starting to get ready to leave with the lights of the terminal signaling the arrival at his destination. He doesn’t move.
“Sir, we are nearly there.” I find that waking sleeping passengers up a few moments before I drop them off makes them better able to orient themselves than doing so the second we arrive. It also makes it easier for them to calculate a fair tip.
The man still doesn’t stir.
“SIR!” I shout now, having had a few passengers before that are in such a deep sleep they practically need to be shaken awake. I’ll do everything before I have to physically touch this man to wake him.
“We’re here!” I yell, my voice growing louder than maybe it’s ever been. The man still doesn’t stir. I wonder if he actually took that sleep pill too early? People always think those pills take a while to kick in… I pull my cab over and stop directly in front of Air France. I get out and open the back-seat door, preparing myself to project like the sports announcer at a Mets game.
But I don’t need my booming voice. I blink my eyes, certain the drowsiness of the day is catching up to me and that I’m not seeing clearly. I squeeze my eyes shut and slow my breathing. When I open my eyes again, the man is seated, slightly slouched, his hand on a silver knife that is sticking out of his chest.
Excerpted from The Midnight Taxi by Yosha Gunasekera Copyright © 2026 by Yosha Gunasekera. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
