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A copy cat serial killer or a ghost?
The dead girl left near my remote cabin looks like my murdered daughter. Even the mark carved in her chest is the same. The same mark carved in my own chest.
For two years, I’ve lived alone, hiding to protect myself from the grief of losing my family to the serial killer I hunted as a detective. The ghosts of my dead family keep me company, visiting nightly, keeping me sane—or maybe not.
The dead girl in my woods is not a ghost. She is as real as her blood on the snow, and obviously killed by the same man that butchered my family.
But that man has been dead for two years.
Who—or what—hunts me now?
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