Mr. G

Some towns are too small for secrets. People here would tell you that. They'd tell you they know their neighbors, know the man who fixes their dishwashers and their deadbolts, know the comfortable beat of a place where nothing much happens.

They'd be wrong about one of those things.

Declan Grady runs the repair shop on the corner. He shows up when something breaks, does the job, takes the cash, says little. That's the whole of him, as far as anyone can tell - a man with grease on his hands and no story worth telling. Which is exactly how he likes it. A man no one looks at twice can look at everyone as long as he wants.

And he does look. At the kid blowing out candles. At the wife who flinches when a door slams. At the small, ugly mistakes people make when they're sure the street is empty. Grady keeps them all - not in a notebook, not on a wall, but somewhere quieter and far worse, slotted into a logic that makes sense to no one but him.

Then people start to come apart, one strange event at a time, and the detectives chasing it can feel a hand behind it all without being able to name the shape. Something that was decided.

Mr. G is about the man who was always in the room - and what happens when the watcher finally chooses to act. When justice is placed in the hands of a monster, who decides where mercy ends?