The Hawthorne Files

The body was arranged exactly like the others. Hands folded. Eyes closed. A single white lily on the chest.

Detective James Hawthorne felt his coffee grow cold in his hands as he stared at the victim. Twenty years. Twenty years since the Lily Killer had last struck.

"It's a copycat," his partner insisted. "The original killer would be in his sixties by now."

But James knew better. He'd spent two decades studying these cases. Every detail, every pattern, every unanswered question.

"This is the original," he said quietly. "I know because he left me a message."

He pointed to the victim's left hand. Clutched between cold fingers was a faded photograph.

It was a picture of James, age twenty-five, standing at his sister's funeral.

"He knows who I am," James breathed. "He's always known."