The trial starts in exactly two days, fourteen hours, and twenty three minutes. The press keeps writing about how guilty I am.
As much as I don't want to believe them, I'm starting to think maybe they're right.
Maybe I am a murderer.
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A serial killer, a girl, a doctor/detective.
Are we really ourselves? Masks do not conceal monsters. Eyes are not the windows to the soul;
And Death. Is Just Forever Sleep.
[mystery/thriller]