Eight Perfect Murders (Malcolm Kershaw, #1)

by Peter Swanson

someone is dead, even the trees know it

It’s my fucking mess and I need to fix it myself.

you know none of this really matters much.

If you are still alive when you read this, close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black.

When we die, we become nothing, the same nothing we were before we were born, but, of course, this time that nothingness is forever.