They found his body on a Monday morning.

Wisps of grey clouds peppered the horizon like polka dots on a pale cream dress. A puddle of dark crimson stained the green grass where Jake Evans lay, his handsome, chiseled face a mess of blood and bone. 

Coroners said that he had been dead an hour prior to the body being found by his sister, Maren, who was worried that he hadn't returned home from his daily morning walks.

An hour.

Sixty minutes.

Woodview was a town that was small, and like most small towns, everyone knew each other. Everyone knew that Jake Evans liked to get up at the break of dawn to stroll in the forests surrounding the town. He once said that it gave him peace - a sense of serenity. 

Anyone could've laid in wait for him, behind the trees and shrubs. Anyone could've leapt out in front of him as he passed, pulling the trigger of a Glock 19 and putting a hole in the back of his head. 

In the back of everyone's minds, they were thinking:

It could've been my neighbour who pulled the trigger.

It could've been my boss who spilled Jake's blood. 

It could've been my friend who is now a murderer.

It could've been anyone.

Even you.