A TV Showrunner Investigates a Death in Matt Goldman’s 'Pulse-Racing' Thriller “The Murder Show” (Exclusive)

The latest novel from Goldman, previously a writer on hits like ‘Seinfeld,’ will hit shelves in 2025 — read an excerpt here

PEOPLE has an exclusive first look at Emmy Award-winning writer and playwright Matt Goldman’s forthcoming thriller, The Murder Show, publishing in 2025 through Forge Books.

Goldman, author of novels like Still Waters and A Good Family, is also an Emmy Award-winning screenwriter who’s written on shows like Seinfeld, Ellen and more. The protagonist of The Murder Show is also in the television business.

Ethan Harris is a showrunner on the successful true crime drama The Murder Show, but his ideas for the show’s fourth season are rejected by the program’s higher ups. On the hunt for inspiration, Ethan returns to his hometown in Minnesota.

Once there, he meets up with his former classmate Ro, now a police officer. Ro has intel on new developments in the case of their mutual friend, Ricky, who was tragically killed in a hit-and-run shortly after high school graduation, and asks Ethan to help her investigate.

Ethan and Ro, however, soon realize the risks — especially when they learn that there’s someone who wants to stop their sleuthing, no matter the cost.

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The novel is a “pulse-racing” look at “secrets, old friends, and how the past never leaves us,” per the book’s synopsis.

Read on for an exclusive excerpt from The Murder Show.

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.

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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.

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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.

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Ro extended her hand and said, “Okay, Ethan Harris. That’s a nice enough name. Deal.”

Ethan hears a scream that jolts him out of his jaunt down memory lane and back into the present. He breaks into a run, and thirty seconds later, he stands on the Greemans’ front step. Ethan hears shouting from within the house. Ro’s voice and the man’s voice. But he can’t make out what they’re saying. He presses the button on the Greemans’ Ring doorbell. Once, twice, three times. He hears footsteps, and a moment later, Ro opens the door.

She stares at him as if she’s looking through Jell-O. Is that who I think it is? she wonders. And then Ro Greeman says, “Ethan?” Ro clutches a pink, steel water bottle as if it’s her life source. She still has light brown eyes with specs of blue. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders. She wears old Levi’s, a navy quarter-zip fleece, Hoka running shoes with marshmallow soles, and forty years on her pretty face. Ethan feels a chill. It could be from Ro. It could be that it’s mid-September in Minnesota and autumn has sent out feelers to introduce itself.

“Ro,” says Ethan. He doesn’t have to manufacture a smile—it bursts onto his face whether he likes it or not.

Ro presses her right palm against her chest. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you.” Her hand moves from her chest to her mouth as if she’s trying to stop what she’s about to say. “Look at you. You’re a man.” She laughs.

Ethan laughs with her. He has not seen Ro since the summer after high school—he grew three inches in college—now he and Ro stand eye to eye. “This is so . . . Wow, it’s good to see you.”

“Come in, my long-lost friend,” says Ro. “Please.”

Ethan steps through the home’s small entryway and into the living room. He hardly notices that the furniture is pushed toward the center of the room and covered in tarps. A stepladder, cans of paint, brushes, and rollers are clustered on the floor near the fireplace. Ethan isn’t sure if he should shake Ro’s hand or hug her, and she seems equally unsure. They kind of stumble into an awkward hug, but once they’re there, neither wants to let go. The man in the room announces his presence with a heavy sigh.

When they part, Ro Greeman says, “Ethan, you remember Marty Mathis.”

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“Hey,” says Ethan. “Nice to see you, Marty.” That’s a lie because it’s not nice to see Marty Mathis even after all these years. Marty is two years older and started dating Ro when he was a senior and she was a sophomore, stealing her away from Ethan. At least in Ethan’s mind because he and Ro were never boyfriend and girlfriend. What a loser Marty Mathis was. Couldn’t get a girl his own age. Although neither could Ethan. But maybe he would have if Marty Mathis hadn’t been in the way. That’s what Ethan told himself anyway. And worst of all, Marty continued dating Ro even after Marty had graduated. He was that weird twenty-year-old who came back for senior prom. Loser. Loser. Loser.

“Nice to see you, Ethan,” says Marty Mathis with dead eyes. He is medium height, medium build, with a struggling head of hair, thin and in retreat. The anger in his eyes is not mollified by his charcoal suit, blue shirt, black tie, and black dress shoes. Marty looks like he’s either in the early stages of growing a beard or he needs a shave, and most likely a drink.

“I haven’t seen Ethan since we were eighteen,” Ro says to Marty. “Since we were children.” She smiles then turns to Ethan and says, “What are you doing here? Are you visiting your parents?” She seems genuinely happy to see Ethan.

Maybe it’s not happiness, thinks Ethan. Maybe it’s relief that he interrupted something that was about to go bad. Real bad. He steals a glance of Marty Mathis. The man is seething under a façade of fatigue. Ethan’s about to answer Ro’s question, but Mathis speaks first.

“I should get going,” says Mathis.

“Sorry,” lies Ethan. “I didn’t know I was interrupting.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Mathis. “We were just having a work chat.” He stares something unkind toward Ro and adds, “Nothing we can’t finish tomorrow.” He walks toward the front door and without looking at Ethan says, “Welcome home, Ethan. Hope you have a good visit.” Like that he’s gone, and Ro shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” says Ethan.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I saw you through the window. It looked like you were arguing. Did you get back togeth—”

“No,” says Ro. “God, no.”

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“Not that it’s any of my business. Man. First time I see you in how many years and . . .” Ethan manages a smile. “I was worried.”

“Ethan Harris,” says Ro, “all growed up into a man, but still sweet.”

They hear the rev of Mathis’s pickup and tires squeal as he pulls away from the curb. Ro drops her eyes in embarrassment. Marty is acting like a pissed-off teenager.

Ethan wants to save her from her shame and says, “I don’t know if I’m all that sweet. Want to come over for a drink?” 

Copyright © 2025 by Matt Goldman. Excerpted from the upcoming THE MURDER SHOW by Matt Goldman, published by Forge Books, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers. All rights reserved.

The Murder Show will be published on April 15, 2025 and is now available for preorder, wherever books are sold.