Melodramatic Detective Short Stories & Novels

When I finally met my online boyfriend in person, he asked what I wanted in a future husband. I didn't even have to think. "He can't be named Jamie Bloom." He looked completely lost, but I didn't explain. Because a fortune-teller once told me I'd die at the hands of a man named Jamie Bloom. That evening, he went to take a shower, and a message popped up on his phone. One glance, and my blood ran cold. "Jamie, sweetie, you got there and didn't even text Mom to say you made it safe?"

I've worked as a university dorm supervisor for five years. I've seen all kinds of outrageous student behavior, from sneaking out over walls to secretly tampering with the dorm's electricity and hiding pets in their rooms. During the holiday break, I'm making my usual rounds to check on the students staying on campus. In the last dorm room, all four young women are lying in bed, fast asleep. The doors and windows are shut, all four students are accounted for, and the electricity records show nothing unusual. I'm just about to sign off on my inspection sheet when something catches my eye on the bottom bunk. I stare at the wrinkles in the bedsheet for three seconds, a cold sweat breaking out across my back. Pretending nothing is wrong, I quietly step out of the room. I close the door, lock it from the outside, and call the police immediately. Three minutes later, the entire dorm building is sealed off. Police cars and ambulances arrive at the same time.

On the night of Mom's birthday, as she was making a wish under the moon, Dad suddenly leaned close to her ear and whispered something. My usually cautious mother, who valued her life above all else, turned around after hearing those words and jumped straight into the pack's silver pit. The silver pit is deadly for us werewolves; only those with a death wish would go there. After her death, countless pack members questioned Dad about what he had said. Someone even offered a million dollars in exchange for those words. But he remained silent. Until the day of my mate ceremony, Dad showed up. He walked up to my fiancé and whispered something...

I'm on track to be a top student, but I end up taking the SAT twice. The first time, I score high enough to get into Westbridge University. The second time, my score qualifies me for Northfield University. Each time, I score over 1500. Yet when the admissions teams see my name, not a single school admits me. At first, I think it must be some kind of background check, certain they've found something in my record. But my parents are honest, hardworking people. They've never broken the law. They wouldn't even harm a fly. So I try a third time. My SAT score is 1590, and my GPA is still perfect. This time, I apply to Crestwood University, thinking I finally have it in the bag. The Crestwood University admissions officer arrives full of cheer, but the moment he sees my name, he freezes, immediately realizing there is no way I will be accepted. I rack my brain, trying to figure out what is wrong with my name. Why does seeing it make every school hesitate, even though my scores are perfect?

Yvonne Sawyer had fallen for a sweet, innocent college guy. Everyone in Kingsport was waiting to see Jaxon Wilder get humiliated. Someone purposely asked, “Ms. Sawyer, you used to be so in love with Mr. Wilder that you nearly turned against your own family for him. How come you’re moving on to someone else?” Yvonne swirled the whiskey in her glass and gave a cold smile. “In love? He was nothing but my boy toy. I’ve had enough of him after all this time. Just looking at him annoys me.” Jaxon was on one knee as he helped a customer try on a new pair of shoes. Eventually, the rumors reached him. His fingers froze for a moment, and his jaw tightened slightly. But he kept smiling. The customer looked around to make sure they were alone before lowering his voice. “Officer Wilder, you’ve been undercover with Yvonne for two years, and you still haven’t found anything. She’s not in love with you anymore; why not walk away and return to the force?” The last trace of emotion in Jaxon’s eyes disappeared. He replied calmly, “There’s no rush. Her new relationship might be the breakthrough I need.”

The night before I was due to marry my wealthy fiancé at the courthouse, my best friend, who studied criminal psychology, asked me a strange question. "Molly, your future mother-in-law never had children. So whose son is your fiancé?" Perhaps she thought I wouldn’t believe her. She showed me footage from twenty years ago, when my future mother-in-law spoke firmly to the press. "Even if this family line ends, I will never have a child or adopt one." I stared at her. My fiancé was already four years old twenty years ago. If he wasn’t her son, could he be my future father-in-law’s child from an affair? Then my friend slapped a medical report on the table. It showed my future father-in-law was infertile. "I checked. Your fiancé wasn’t adopted, and he isn’t the child of a relative or family friend. Something’s wrong with that family. Think carefully before you marry him." My friend had barely finished speaking when a message from my fiancé appeared. [Honey, I know we’re getting married tomorrow, but I still can’t settle down. Can I pick you up? Will you stay with me tonight?]

I'm a half-baked forensic examiner whose only redeeming quality is the ability to understand animals. The crime scene is inside a lavish villa. The lady of the house lies dead on the floor with a blunt-force injury to the back of her head so deep that her bone is visible. The safe has been pried open, and a million dollars in cash has vanished without a trace. Clear shoe prints mark the backyard wall, evidence that someone has climbed over it. "This one's clear as day. This is a textbook robbery-homicide. The suspect is likely a young male, around six feet tall, has a prior theft record, and knows how to cover his tracks. Check the surveillance footage in the area and look into places where he might've moved the stolen cash." The director of the forensic science center, Egbert Woodward, has been in the profession for three decades and is a widely respected authority. The officers at the scene nod in unison and begin taking notes. I'm the only one who stares at the 30 flies circling the ceiling for a full 3 minutes before taking a step forward and piping up, "Dr. Woodward, this isn't a robbery-homicide. It's a crime of passion. The murderer is the victim's husband!"

Lately, my world seemed to have taken a strange turn. I was clearly just an ordinary-looking girl. Yet everyone said I was so beautiful they could not take their eyes off me. I was even scouted by a talent agent, debuted as the lead, and became a national sweetheart. I went out to buy a lottery ticket. Out of the blue, I won thirty million dollars. I had money, power, and status. All the things I never dared to dream of before were within easy reach. However, I noticed something strange. My friends were forgetting me day by day.

I live alone. At eleven o'clock on a rainy night, an unexpected call came through. The voice on the other end said my car window was left open and urged me to go downstairs. Cautious as a woman should be, I didn't act rashly. Instead, I called the property security office, only to discover that even the security was fake. It hit me suddenly—I was ensnared in a vast conspiracy. Someone was orchestrating all of this. But for what purpose?

I, Taylor Laurent, go to the hospital's emergency department because of severe abdominal pain. When I wake up, my mom, Jocelyn Nord, stares at me in terror and asks, "You are not my daughter. Who are you?" Helpless and regretful, Hank Gibson, the doctor, says to my mom, "She is your daughter, it's just… an accident." My mom can't accept it and jumps off the hospital building, killing herself instantly. Hank is suspended because of this incident and, under my questioning, chooses to kill himself by hitting a wall. When I finally find my life partner and take the premarital medical exam, the staff tells me something that chills me to my bones.

My roommate, Claire Lane, hadn't come home in three days. Then our landlady blocked my doorway with Claire's suitcase in her arms. She said Claire had already moved out and told me to sign Claire's move-out confirmation for her. Just as I picked up the pen, rows of red text suddenly appeared before my eyes, floating like real-time comments on a livestream. [Don't sign! She never left!] [That isn't Claire's suitcase. There's evidence inside.] [The moment you sign, that paper will prove she left of her own free will.] [When the police get to the basement storage room, she'll say the key was in your hands the whole time.] The landlady pushed the pen into my hand. "It's only one signature. You're roommates, aren't you? Sign for her so I can refund her security deposit." I put the pen back on the table. "Linda, I can't copy someone else's signature. I'm not signing this."

Two years ago, I got pregnant for the first time. At ten weeks, a silver lock-shaped charm appeared outside our front door. There was no shipping label and no sender. Ian Shaw laughed at me for worrying. He said a friend had probably sent us an early gift for the baby. But that night, I developed stomach pains. By the time I reached the hospital in the early hours, the baby no longer had a heartbeat. A year ago, I got pregnant again. I told no one, not even my mother. In the eighth week, an identical silver charm appeared in the nursery we hadn’t used yet. The doors and windows were locked, and the security cameras showed no one entering. That time, I fell in the bathroom and lost the baby too. Now I was pregnant again. Before dawn in my seventh week, a nightmare woke me. My fingers touched something cold beneath my pillow. A third silver lock charm lay there. I held it in my shaking hands. Who was trying to kill my baby?

Celeste Cox sent me a photo on WhatsApp. I opened it to find a picture of the school heartthrob and me in an intimate embrace, the pose as suggestive as could be.

The day I got fired, I received a trial pass from an AI cosmetic clinic. It required neither surgery nor recovery time, yet it could deliver a flawless celebrity face overnight. But there was a catch. The face only lasted seven days after the complimentary trial. To keep it, I signed a contract to become the actress' body double, trading my time, identity, and freedom for another week of beauty. As the years passed, I kept paying the price to maintain a face that wasn't mine until one day, I realized I no longer wanted to live in someone else's shadow.

My cheating wife suffered brain damage in a car accident. Her entire vocabulary shrank to "yes" and "no." She couldn't say another word. Better yet, every answer had to be true. Someone up there was watching over me! I asked her, "Were you cheating on me with my friend?" Her face went pale, but she couldn't stop herself from saying, "Yes." "Did you transfer any assets?" "Yes." "Is your bank card PIN your first love's birthday?" "Yes." Thanks to her inability to lie, I got my friend sent to prison and took all her assets. She couldn't even curse me out. Then one day, a pretty barista hit on me while making my coffee. I turned to my wife, who just stared blankly. "Are you even my wife? Doesn't that make you jealous?" She blurted out, "No." I froze and stared hard into her eyes. A long moment passed before I asked, "Then is my wife, Shannon York, dead?" "Yes and no."

I suspected someone was impersonating my husband. Maybe it wasn't even human. Because lately, Luther had been acting far too strange. After more than ten years of being left-handed, he'd suddenly started using his right hand. The birthmark on his thigh had disappeared too. But the strangest thing happened this morning. As he crossed the balcony on his way out, the morning light slanted across the floor. And somehow, he cast two shadows. One in front. One behind. Yet whenever he held me, I could still hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. I told myself I was being paranoid. Until that evening. I had the TV on while I cooked in the kitchen when the news anchor suddenly cut in with a breaking report. “Authorities have identified the body of the man who drowned in Lake Yandee last week.” “The deceased has been identified as Luther Miller, male...” My mind went completely blank. Behind me, the front door opened softly. Then Luther's gentle voice drifted in. “Honey, I'm home.” My entire body started shaking. I spun around and raised the kitchen knife toward him. “Who the hell are you?”

I am a miserable nurse. During the Halloween season, there was a three day break but I was not given any days off. Upset, I decided to join a game featuring a haunted hospital. There was an old man wrapped in IV tubes chasing after a player. I sprinted forward and shoved him into the chair. After effortlessly jabbing the IV line back in him, I told him off, "It’s just an IV drip, not an action movie. Sit. Down. Move again and I’ll strap you to the chair!" The old man did a double take before blinking in a flustered manner. "Sorry for causing you trouble, ma'am." At night, children ghosts began to run and laugh wildly in the corridor. I grabbed one in each hand and hauled them up. "If you’re not going to stay put in the ward, I’ll give you an injection!" Why did I still have to work in a game? I was so tired. The other players cried out, "Clem! That's a ghost. Are you not scared?" I sneered, "Sorry, but burnt-out workers hold more grudges than ghosts ever could."

My usually low-key boyfriend, Wade Sullivan, suddenly announces our relationship in our class group chat. "Hey, everyone, you're all welcome to celebrate Thanksgiving at Merry Mountain Villa, which my parents own. I'll cover your flights, meals, and accommodations. You can also witness me propose to Lucille." The group chat instantly explodes. "Holy crap! When did you two start dating? You've been keeping it pretty well hidden, huh." "I heard Merry Mountain Villa costs 880 dollars a night, and it's still impossible to book a room. Wade, who knew you were secretly a rich hottie?" My best friend, Danielle Klein, excitedly sends me more than a dozen voice messages in a row. "Lucille, you've finally made it! Wade is finally willing to take you home to meet his parents!" But I can only stare at my screen, a chill creeping down my spine. My boyfriend of ten years has always found excuses to avoid letting me meet his parents during the holidays. He doesn't even dare to post a couple of photos with me on Instagram. And now, out of nowhere, he invites the entire class to his hometown to witness our proposal? The more I think about it, the more uneasy I feel. So, I break up with him right then and there. That very night, I accept my company's overseas transfer to Terraton. It isn't until Thanksgiving night that I finally drag my suitcase out of the airport, only for my phone to vibrate like crazy. I have 186 missed calls and over a thousand unread messages in the group chat. Danielle sends me a private voice message, her voice trembling with despair. "Whatever you do, don't answer any calls or reply to any messages. And run as far away as you can!" I open the class group chat, and my scalp instantly prickles with horror.

It's nighttime, and I'm on the toilet with my phone. I fire up Battleborn Arena, ready to grind a few ranked matches. But an unknown number flashes on-screen and cuts me off. Annoyed, I decline the call, and a WhatsApp message pops up immediately. "Run! Edgar just snapped. He's going to kill us all!" My hands tremble. Edgar Maguire… Isn't he already dead?

On our third wedding anniversary, my husband drove me out to the coast. As the sun set, he pointed to a lighthouse in the distance. "Beautiful, isn't it? Look at that red tower." My iced coffee slipped from my hand. My husband is red-green color-blind. He can't tell red from green. Yet here he was, describing a color he couldn't possibly see.