A bare room. A table, two chairs. A fake mirror. The suspect and the policeman. A diary. The last interrogation, the decisive one. The suspect is only a boy, but the crime he is accused of is terrible. Three victims: his parents and his best friend. It seem obvious that was him, even though there is not enough evidence to sue him. Yet ... There is a new fact: the diary. A girl wrote it and tells in detail how the murders took place. It also indicates the murderer, and it’s not the boy. Unfortunately it’s not reliable, because the girl, the one who wrote the diary, doesn’t exist, and consequently can’t have seen the facts that are written in there. As for the killer... even worse. He can’t have done those crimes in any way. There is only one possibility, the only one. The boy has to read it, provide his version, validate it or not. Beyond logic and reason. Because the policeman is determined: that night, one way or another, the case will be closed. It's all there, in those few pages, in that volume that begins with a phrase so harmless and terrible: Dear Libby.