The Maplewood Murders is his first novel in the Maplewood series.
It began, as most secrets in Maplewood do, with something charming.

A teacup that moved on its own.
A candle that refused to die out.

And a whisper that no one quite heard clearly enough to question-until it was too late. Maplewood, the picture-perfect English village, wore its beauty like a disguise. Its cottages, brushed with ivy and kindness, seemed incapable of deceit. But beneath the cobblestone calm, ambition festered, envy brewed, and memory-sharp, fragile, and easily bruised-was never truly buried.