With a roar of machinery, the lighthouse lantern flared to a blinding white, and Autumn realized the deadline wasn't for his next victim. It was for the island itself. The countdown had hit zero, and the shadows were finally coming home.
"You're late," he whispered, his hand hovering over the final lever.
The wind howled across the rugged cliffs of Shadow Island, carrying the salt-spray of the Atlantic and a chilling sense of finality. Detective Autumn Trent looked out over the churning gray water, the case files for the "Deadline Killer" spread across the scarred wooden desk of her rented cottage.
He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the sweeping light. "On Shadow Island, the clock never stops. It only resets."
