Iris Thorne

The dense canopy of the Pacific Northwest blocked out the starlight, plunging the forest floor into an absolute, suffocating darkness. Detective Iris Thorne swept the beam of her heavy-duty flashlight across the damp undergrowth, the yellow light cutting through the creeping fog that rolled off the nearby lake. Every snapping twig and rustling pine needle seemed to echo with the secrets of the quiet, isolated mountain town, a place where everyone knew everyone's business, yet no one was willing to talk about the blood chillingly fresh in the clearing just half a mile back. She paused near the gnarled roots of an ancient cedar, her breath fogging in the frigid night air as she inspected a disturbance in the moss. The local sheriff had called it an accident, a tragic fall from a ridge, but the jagged, deliberate trauma on the victim's skull told Iris a far more sinister story. She was miles from her cruiser, completely alone in the wilderness, relying entirely on her instincts and the waning battery of her light to guide her through the labyrinth of shadows that felt increasingly alive.