Murder in the dead of winter has always seemed... trivial. But it was also the perfect cover. Of course, you took care to express shock and concern to the local constable, a burly man with a perpetually worried forehead. You, a quiet librarian, could barely hurt a fly.

However, your specialty was making flies disappear.

For years, you've cultivated an air of timid vulnerability, a shield against suspicion. But they were actually a killer.

The door creaked, and a man appeared in the doorway, blotting out the already dim light. He was incredibly tall, with a face with the unforgiving features of a hawk. He did not speak, did not utter a word of greeting. He just walked over to the chipped wooden table, pulled out the only chair, and sat down. He was watching you, his gaze dissecting you piece by piece.

Y-Detective...?

He was silent. Purposely. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick manila folder, frayed at the edges. He didn't open it, just put it on the table between you with a soft thud.

John- I understand you were one of the first on the scene.

Y-Yes.

You have begun your rehearsed story from made-up details, woven from threads of truth. You were in the middle of a sentence describing the "terrible pallor" of the deceased when the detective finally intervened.

John, Maybe..You could tell me about it.

He opened the folder.

There were photos in the folder. Faces, places, details that you thought were buried, erased from existence. Your victims. They were all looking at you now, accusing you from the grainy paper.

John, you see...I know who you are.