★ Confirmed to be adapted into a Korean drama ★
★The best-selling novel in New Zealand history★
★ Worldwide bestseller with 3 million copies sold ★
★ #1 thriller on German Amazon ★

“The best opening chapter of any thriller I've ever read” - Reader Review
A masterpiece by Paul Cleave, the king of crime thrillers that captivated three continents.

Paul Cleave's masterpiece, "The Seventh Is Not Me," which is the best-selling novel in New Zealand history and has won crime fiction awards on three continents, including North America, Europe, and Australia, has been published by Seosamdok.
Although "The Seventh Is Not Me" was the debut novel by an unknown author, it quickly became a word-of-mouth hit and became one of the best-selling novels in New Zealand.
This novel, which has sold over 3 million copies worldwide, has surpassed geographical limitations by reaching number one in the thriller novel category on Amazon Germany the following year and being nominated as a finalist for the Naio Marsh Award in New Zealand and the Ned Kelly Award in Australia.
It was aired as an Amazon Prime TV series in 2024, and is currently being adapted into a drama in Korea.


After becoming a full-time writer, author Paul Cleave wrote about ten genre novels, winning the Prix de Crime Fiction at the Saint-Mordo Book Fair in France and the Naio Marsh Award, New Zealand's top crime novel award, three times.
Moreover, his works have been translated into 20 languages ​​and have been shortlisted for the Edgar, Barry, and Edgar Allan Poe Awards, captivating critics and readers on three continents and bringing widespread recognition to his hometown of Christchurch, the setting of his novels.

"The Seventh is Not Me" tells the story of a clumsy cleaner by day and a serial killer by night.
Set in the picturesque city of Christchurch, the novel alternates between the perspectives of Joe, a criminal who has committed seven murders but has not been caught, and Sally, his good-natured colleague who observes him.
With a petty and arrogant protagonist who breaks away from the usual cold-blooded killer character, a turning point in the story that catches readers off guard and completely changes the flow after the middle, scenes that satisfy the universal desire of readers to punish criminals, and even suspense that leaves the ending completely unpredictable, the thriller "The Seventh Is Not Me" is a sophisticated work that fully convinces why it is being made into films and read again in various countries.

There's one more bottle of beer in the fridge.
There is no reason to refuse.
I sit back in my chair, put my feet up on the table, and contemplate whether or not to take off my shoes.
You know that feeling? You come home from a long, hard day at work, grab a beer, sit down, put your feet up on the table, and kick off your shoes.
There is no heaven.
I sip my best beer of the year while listening to Angela shower upstairs.
After emptying the second bottle in 5 minutes, I'm hungry.
When I opened the refrigerator again, a cold slice of pizza caught my eye.
There's no way it won't work.
I'm not even on a diet.
I sit back down on the chair and put my feet on the table.
Take off your shoes and this pizza will be heavenly, just like beer.
But there is no time for that now.
After quickly eating the pizza, I pick up my briefcase and go upstairs.
A familiar song blares from the bedroom stereo.
What was the title? I don't know the title or the singer, but I hummed the song as I laid my briefcase down on the bed.
I think this melody will be ringing in my ears for hours.
He sits down next to his briefcase and takes out a newspaper.
The front page features articles that are currently selling well.
I suspect that half of these articles are fabrications by newspapers to increase circulation.
There is definitely demand.
The sound of the shower water subsides, but I ignore it and continue reading the newspaper.
This is an article about a man who made the whole city tremble.
An article about a murderer who killed and tortured women.
It's perfect material for a movie.
A few minutes later, Angela emerges from the bathroom, toweling her hair, enveloped in white steam and the smell of lotion.
I put the newspaper down and smile.
Angela looks straight at me and asks.
“Who are you?”
--- pp.7-8

With my body completely bruised, I gave up and did the most daring thing I could.
I went to the police station to make a 'confession'.
The officer in charge of me that day was Detective Schroeder.
It was my first meeting with him.
Within seconds of meeting him, my fears were gone.
Because I realized that I was much smarter than any cop there.
I left no evidence.
They burned the body to remove my DNA, and threw the remaining body into the river, washing everything away.
I was confident in the aftercare I did.
It's something I would never do now.
Anyway, that day I was escorted by two police officers and sat in a small interrogation room.
The interrogation room, surrounded by concrete walls, had no windows and smelled of gum and sweat.
There was a wooden table and two chairs in the middle, and there was no flower pots or pictures, only a mirror.
The chair was quite uncomfortable as the front legs were a bit short and my body kept sliding forward, and there was a recorder on the table.
Now, this is where I clean once a week.
I started the conversation in the interrogation room by saying that I was the killer of a woman who had been murdered a few months ago.
Which woman are you talking about?
You know, right?
A woman with a reward at stake.
It was a man, sir.
Yes, I killed that man.
Can you give me the money now?
It was not difficult to arouse the police's suspicion about the truthfulness of the confession.
--- pp.53-54

She is the woman in the fourth of seven photos.
I know her name and face now, but I had never seen Woman Number 4 before her photo was posted here.
Since her picture was posted six weeks ago, I have stopped every day to look at her features.
Daniela Walker.
She is a blonde beauty.
It's definitely my style, but I didn't kill it.
Even after death, Daniela's eyes sparkled with a soft emerald color.
That's what I saw when I looked at the photos before and after death.
At first, Detective Schroeder was reluctant to let me into the conference room because of these photos, but after a while, he seemed to have forgotten about them or didn't care, so he just left me alone. In the photos taken a few years before her death, Daniela Walker looks like a happy 30-something.
The photo captures the moment she turns towards the camera, her hair flowing down her shoulders in a sparkling manner.
The lips are parted in a smile.
Daniela's photo has been on my mind every day since it was put on the conference room wall.
Why? Because the man who killed her framed me.
It's clear that he's scared.
Why else would he have used me instead of thinking of finding his own creative way out?
--- pp.57-58

That doesn't mean I'm going to kill anyone tonight.
I am not a beast always plagued by homicidal impulses.
I don't go around venting my childhood aggression, looking for excuses to kill someone.
I'm not one of those people desperate to make a name for themselves like infamous serial killers Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer.
Bundy was an eccentric man who had followers both during and after his trial, and even got married after he was sentenced to death.
He is also a loser who killed more than 30 people but was eventually caught.
I don't want to be famous and I don't want to get married.
If he wanted to be famous, he would have killed someone famous like Chapman, who loved John Lennon so much that he shot him to death.
I am an ordinary person.
He's just an ordinary guy with a special hobby.
I am not a psychopath.
I can't even hear any auditory hallucinations.
I don't kill for God, Satan, or the neighbor's dog.
There is no religion.
I just kill people for myself.
That's all.
There's nothing complicated about it.
I like women and I like doing things that women don't allow me to do.
There are 3 to 4 billion women in this world.
So killing one person every month or two isn't that big of a deal.
It's all a matter of perspective.
--- p.60

My mom taps my earlobe again.
“Don’t talk back to your mom.”
“I’m not talking back, Mom.
“I just said what day it is.”
My mom raised her hand again, but when I quickly apologized, her anger subsided and she lowered her hand.
“I made meatloaf, Joe.
It's meatloaf.
“It’s your favorite food.”
“You don’t have to tell me every time.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s nothing.” I open the package I brought, take out a bouquet of flowers, and hand it to my mom.
This time it's a flower without thorns.
(Omitted) I said I thought it would be okay and that I had brought something else for my mom.
"okay?"
He takes out a box of chocolates and hands it to his mother.
"Are you trying to poison me, Joe? My cholesterol is already high, and you're feeding me sugar?"
Oh, please.
“I just wanted to do well for you.”
“Then don’t buy things like chocolate.
“That’s a good thing,” Mom says with an annoyed expression.
“But cola also has sugar in it.”
“Are you showing off to your mom right now?”
“No way.”
My mom throws a box of chocolates at me.
The corner of the box hits my forehead, and stars flash before my eyes for a moment.
I rubbed the area where I hit the bump and there was a small mark, but no blood.
“Your dinner is all cold.
“I ate first.”
I put the chocolates back in the bag while my mom prepares dinner.
There's no offer to heat up dinner for me, but I don't feel like asking, so I go to the microwave to heat it up myself.
“You came late and got cold.
“Don’t even think about heating it with my electricity.”
--- pp.104-106

Go as you are told and lean against the tree.
Melissa searches through her handbag and takes out a pair of handcuffs.
oh my god.
Melissa tosses the handcuffs towards me, but I don't even think about grabbing them.
“Pick it up.”
"why?"
I pick up the handcuffs as Melissa points the gun at my penis.
“Put one handcuff on your left wrist.”
“What are you going to do?”
“If you don’t do what I say, I’ll shoot you in the balls.”
I slam the cold metal shackles onto my wrists.
You will hear a click as the gears engage into place.
“Lie down, put your arms up and around the tree, then handcuff your other wrist.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How about thinking about it again?”
“Don’t be annoying, just do it.”
Do as you are told.
I lay on the floor and the grass tickled my back.
The position is extremely uncomfortable, but Melissa won't care.
Stretch both arms up and hug the tree, then handcuff the other wrist.
Melissa circles the tree, her gun aimed at me, then tightens the handcuffs I'd loosened.
The handcuffs press hard against my wrist bones, causing pain, but I don't groan.
I can't show that I'm sick.
Yes, that's right.
I am a real man.
A real man who doesn't even know what's going on.
--- pp.203-204

Lonely, white, these crimes are mostly non-racial, so the victims are all white women.
Early 30s.
Since all the murders happen at night, it's clear that they work during the day.
However, it is likely to be a trivial and simple job.
He thinks he is too smart to do such trivial things.
He lives with a woman who controls him, such as his mother or aunt.

Melissa also asked me if I had a domineering mother.
It's all nonsense, saying that the person who wrote this article had the same thoughts.

Unable to confront the woman directly, he takes revenge on her by killing other women through telepathy.
What the criminal wants is not sex, but the power to dominate and reign, and he uses sex as a weapon.
There is a very high possibility that the person has a criminal record for voyeurism or theft.

Next, it goes on to say that I am neither a multiple personality nor a mentally ill person.
Still, I got one right.

If the urge to rape and murder had been constant, he wouldn't have killed them so sporadically.
Most of the incidents occurred about a month apart.
It may be because the perpetrator was arrested and then released on another charge unrelated to the murder.
Sometimes it happened at intervals of a week.
Given the victims' cooperation, it is highly likely that they were threatened with weapons.
Additionally, given that the incident did not occur when the victim was at home with her husband or partner, it is reasonable to assume that the perpetrator was trying to avoid the risk of encountering other men.
Due to a lack of planning, when tying up the victim, they use objects that stand out at the scene rather than tools prepared in advance.
As the crime continues, the perverted tendencies become more severe.
The murder plan was made a long time ago.
Covering the victim's face and turning over the victim's photo is an attempt to depersonalize the victim.
The reason he covers the victim's face before killing her, rather than after, is not because he feels guilty, but because he wants to imagine killing the woman who controls him.
It seems like he is reliving the moment he committed the crime, taking items from the scene such as underwear and jewelry as loot.
They have sociopathic tendencies, no conscience, and do not see their victims as real people.
The victims' graves must be continuously monitored.
This is because the criminal may appear not because he is remorseful, but to reflect on the crime.
You can also call the police to report a case or provide a witness statement to keep track of the progress of the investigation.
Or you can hang out at a bar that the police frequent and talk to them about the case.

The report goes on to argue that rape is a violent crime that uses sex as a weapon.
Sex is a means to display power and control and to dominate others.
Did I really obscure the victims' faces for the reasons outlined in the report? Was it to depersonalize them and imagine them as someone else? I'm not sure.
The graveyard story is true.
I actually thought about going, but now that I know the police are watching, I won't go.

--- pp.241-242