It was 5:48 pm on a Wednesday when Trey Haskin had his throat torn out.
The death was only significant because it was the fourth one in as many days. My department only got the call because of the way in which the guy was killed. I only cared because now I had to stand in the shadows of a rapidly darkening alley waiting on a creature that may or may not ever show up.
This is my life: a twisted version of the Butterfly Effect.
That's the first few lines of my novel, "Shepherd's Moon."