The turnstone flips every stone along the shore to see what's hiding. So do we. Each case, each place, is a stone waiting to be turned.
A tech CEO is found dead in his own tower. Five suspects, three rounds of questioning, and every one of them is carrying a lie. You don't get a tidy list of clues — you get a real crime scene, and you turn it over yourself.
Each case is set in a real place. Open a file and start digging.
In the shadow of Tenerife's volcano, a game played in silence. Someone planned this — you just have to prove it.
An Indian Ocean beach in Mauritius, and a night the tide tried to bury. No witness can speak, but the water can.
A last meal along Kyoto's Kiyamachi canal. Everyone at the table has an alibi. One of them is lying.
Turnstone Pass began with a real turnstone on a beach in Tenerife, flipping stones to see what was hiding underneath. The name stuck, and so did the habit. Every case is set somewhere these games have actually been: a volcano island, an Indian Ocean beach, a canal in Kyoto. The stories are not about the places; they are postcards from them. Fittingly, the first case returns to Tenerife, where it all began. Best played the way the name was found: lying on a beach, turning stones.
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The turnstone doesn't pick and choose. It turns every stone, because there's always something underneath.