The lighthouse keeper was dead. His body lay sprawled awkwardly. Blood pooled beneath his head. The morning fog rolled in. Sarah Miller gripped her badge. She had arrived too late. The wooden floorboards creaked ominously. Someone had smashed the window. Glass shards glittered like diamonds. The lighthouse beam still rotated. Its light swept the ocean. No one had heard screams. The nearest neighbor lived far. This death wasn't an accident. Sarah photographed the crime scene. The victim's hands were bound. His coffee mug sat untouched. Yesterday's newspaper remained perfectly folded. Someone he trusted did this. The killer left no footprints.