“In the dead of a London winter, when the fog lay thick as old grief over Baxter Street, a parcel arrived at our door. Inside it lay an ornate clock—beautifully crafted, fearfully precise… and entirely without hands.

But the clock held more than silence.

Hidden within its chamber was a severed finger… and a list of names arranged like appointments. Five already crossed by fate. The next to fall scheduled for that very night.

And the last name… was mine.

How does a man outrun the past… when the past knows his name?