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About the product • Victoria Platova is the only Russian author working in the genre of mystical realism. You don’t have to study psychology textbooks to know yourself. A brilliant analysis of psychopathology in Platova’s novels will pick up the key to all the hidden phobias, desires and motives of any person’s actions. • The works of Victoria Platova have gained popularity not only among Russian-speaking readers: the books have been translated into many languages, and the name of the writer is familiar to fans of the detective genre in European countries and even overseas. The first book of Platova, as well as the novels «The Devil’s Font», «The Geometry of Murder», «The Inspector and the Butterfly», «Stalingrad, Metro Station» are still especially popular; perfected, magnificent style. • Victoria Platova surprised readers and fans by writing poetry for the compositions of the Ukrainian singer Jamala. The songs «Cactus» and «I love you» belong to the writer’s pen. She is motionless. She is dead. And no leads. Only questions … Cold Petersburg. The dull creak of the bus doors. Forty two stops. Passengers get in and out. Rhythmic and endless cycle. And nobody cares about the girl sitting in the back seat, leaning against the window. She is motionless. She is dead. Later, a criminal expert states sparingly: the girl was killed by a professional. Coolly and as if he plunged a knife into her body, causing instant death. And no leads. Just questions. And the gusty wind from the Neva, walking through the damp quarters and catching up with mortal melancholy … Annotation Cold Petersburg. The dull creak of the bus doors. Forty-two stops. Passengers get in and out. Rhythmic and endless cycle. And nobody cares about the girl sitting in the back seat, leaning against the window. She is motionless. She is dead. Later, a criminal expert states sparingly: the girl was killed by a professional. Coldly and as if he plunged a knife into her body, causing instant death. And no leads. Just questions. And the gusty wind from the Neva, walking through the damp quarters and catching up with mortal melancholy….
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