The Murder Show is a pulse-racing novel about secrets, old friends, and how the past never leaves us by New York Times bestselling and Emmy Award winning author Matt Goldman!
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Matt Goldman’s The Murder Show, which is out April 15th 2025.
Showrunner Ethan Harris had a hit with The Murder Show, a television crime drama that features a private detective who solves cases the police can’t. But after his pitch for the fourth season is rejected by the network, he returns home to Minnesota looking for inspiration.
His timing is fortunate — his former classmate Ro Greeman is now a local police officer, and she’s uncovered new information about the devastating hit and run that killed their mutual friend Ricky the summer after high school. She asks Ethan to help her investigate and thinks that if he portrays the killing on The Murder Show, the publicity may bring Ricky’s killer to justice.
Ethan is skeptical that Ricky’s death was anything but a horrible accident, but with the clock running out on his career, he’s willing to try anything. It doesn’t take long for them to realize they’ve dug up more than they bargained for. Someone is dead set on stopping Ethan and Ro from looking too closely into Ricky’s death — even if keeping them quiet means killing again…
Twenty-two years after Ethan Harris heard Ricky O’Shea’s blood, yes heard Ricky’s blood as it dripped from his body and splattered on the soft ground below, Ethan wheels his carry-on bag into his childhood home. He drops his luggage in the entryway, walks through the small living room, and continues into the kitchen where he sees a note on the countertop:
Welcome! At the Shapiros. Home around nine. There’s a plate in the refrigerator if you’re hungry. xoxo—Mom
She signs her texts, too. As if Ethan doesn’t know who the sender is. He’s about to check out what’s inside the refrigerator when he looks out the kitchen window and sees Rosalie Greeman—at least he thinks it’s Ro Greeman—standing in her mother’s living room. The Greeman house is directly behind the Harris house. The backyards run into each other. No fence. No hedge. No trees. No obstacles whatsoever so Ethan can see clearly into Ro’s mother’s house.
Ro and a man appear to be arguing. Their arms flail. The man’s back is turned toward the window. Ethan can’t see his face. But he can see Ro’s and he feels her anger. Ethan used to know Ro well, back when they were teenage neighbors living in these houses with parents and dreams of leaving and never coming back.
Ro and the man now stand five feet apart. They’re pointing at each other. Shouting at each other. Ethan, of course, can’t hear a word but he knows Ro’s body language. At least he used to. He has no idea who the man is.
The argument looks like it could escalate into something physical. Something dangerous. Ethan is far from a tough guy. He’s never been in a fistfight in his life. That’s forty years of never fighting, and it seems a little late to start now. His choices are to call 911 and hope the police get there in time to stop whatever might happen or to go over there himself and knock on the door like the old neighbor he is. Just to say hello and tell Ro that he’s back in town for a week or two and . . .
Ethan exits the kitchen and walks back through the living room that hasn’t changed since he moved out of this house over two decades ago. He rarely visits Minneapolis anymore. The Harris family gathers once or twice a year, but usually at one of the siblings’ homes, which is far larger than his parents’ bungalow. Ethan’s always surprised to see the same Sears furniture. Soft man-made fabrics in earth tones. Same light-sucking drapes. Same Judaica on the bookshelves reminding him that he’s returned to Minneapolis to visit his parents for the High Holidays. That’s the excuse he gave them anyway—the real reason is more complicated. And desperate. There’s the familiar Seder plate, menorah, and Shabbat candlesticks. Nothing has changed. For Ethan’s entire youth, his parents lived like they were on the run. But when they settled down, they really settled down.
He continues toward the front door and catches sight of himself in the entryway mirror. When Ethan was in high school, this is where he’d check his hair before leaving the house to meet with friends. Back then, he had no gray hair, no lines on his forehead, no crinkles around his eyes. Now his dark curls are riddled with silver, and Ethan’s olive skin complains about life. And he’s missing one thing he had in high school. Cocksureness. He was sure of himself when he was younger. A confidence blanketed in ignorance. But then life did what life does, and all that youthful bravado leaked out through the lines in his face like steam through fissures in geothermal rock.
Perfect. No confidence and he’s about to knock on a neighbor’s door to interrupt two fighting adults. Ethan Harris to the rescue. What a joke. He hitches his jeans up. Why do they keep slipping down? He sighs something regretful, opens the front door, and jogs around toward the backyards. This is where he met Ro Greeman the summer between ninth and tenth grade.
Ethan was mowing his new yard when Ro pushed her mower into hers. No fence. No hedge. No trees. No obstacles whatsoever. Just one patch of green with no impediment to Ethan stealing glances of the neighbor girl’s long legs sticking out of short shorts as she put one foot atop the engine and pulled the starter cord. Ro’s mower sputtered but didn’t catch. Ethan watched her unscrew the gas cap, look in, and shake her head. Then she did something he didn’t expect. She walked to the back of her backyard where it met the back of his backyard. She looked at him, he killed the engine on his mower, and fifteen-year-old Ro Greeman said, “Hi. I’m Ro. Could I borrow a hit of gas?”
Ro looked at him with brown-specked blue eyes, as if she’d received neither dominant nor recessive genes but rather genes that just want to get along. She had long limbs and light brown hair that fell halfway down her back. Her nose was freckled from the sun as if it were the factory that sent brown specks to her blue eyes. She wore no jewelry. She wore men’s clothing. Based on their size, she wore men’s work boots that were either too big for her or she had circus-people feet. She was, thought Ethan, strikingly beautiful in a most unconventional way.
Ethan said, “No. Sorry. I’m not giving you any gas.” He heard his voice shake and hoped she didn’t notice. He was taking a chance, talking this way to a girl, the first he’d met since moving to Minneapolis.
Ro’s eyes widened, and her shoulders slumped. That is not how Minnesotans act toward one another, especially when meeting for the first time. If you have gas in your can and your neighbor needs gas, you share. It’s in the Minnesota Constitution.
“But I will make a deal with you.” Ethan tried to sound serious. Businesslike. “I’ll mow your lawn today and buy you more gas if, in return, you show me around the neighborhood. I just moved in. I don’t know anything about anything around here. Or anyone.” He was playing the vulnerability card. Another risk because she might see him as pathetic and not worth her time.
Ro took a good look at Ethan. He was short—five foot six—had a baby face damp with sweat, and dark brown eyes that looked especially warm above his baby-blue T-shirt. She said, “I’m not making a deal with you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Ethan,” he said. He held out his hand. “Ethan Harris.”
Ro hesitated as if she were being asked to do something indecent. Indecent but exciting. Maybe exhilarating.
“Do you play Scrabble?” said Ro.
“I do,” said Ethan.
Ro extended her hand and said, “Okay, Ethan Harris. That’s a nice enough name. Deal.”
