Plot Twists Short Stories & Police Fake Death Novels

During the five years I was in a vegetative state, all ten family soldiers assigned to guard me were murdered. One of them merely smoked a cigarette outside my hospital room. The next day, he was found upside down, drowned in a toilet. Another simply adjusted my pillow. The next day, he took a dive from a skyscraper rooftop. The Corleone family was in chaos, but they couldn't find a single trace of the killer. With no other choice, the ten executions, all textbook Mafia hits, became cold cases. Strangely, the very second the tenth guard's heart stopped, I opened my eyes. The first thing I did upon waking was call the FBI and turn myself in. The agents were stunned. "Miss Corleone, are you saying that while in a coma for five years, you planned and executed the murders of ten fully armed Mafia soldiers?" My fingers tapped lightly on the table, a faint smile playing on my lips. "That's right." "Being in a vegetative state only means I couldn't move." "Who ever told you that killing, something so crude, required me to get my hands dirty?"

On the day the country's most notorious serial killer, Henry Luther, is scheduled for execution, I personally escort him to the death chamber. Just before his sentence is carried out, he suddenly looks at me with pity. "The truth is, I only killed 17 people. I deserve to die, but you can't blame me for what happened to your medical examiner husband." The moment he mentions Victor Ashford, all my hatred comes rushing back. Three years ago, Victor served as the city's chief medical examiner. While protecting a crucial piece of evidence, he was stabbed dozens of times by Henry. I rushed back from another city overnight, only to find Victor's body mutilated beyond recognition. Overcome with grief, I began hemorrhaging and lost our baby when I was three months pregnant. For the next three years, I repeatedly risk my life hunting down Henry, determined to capture him myself and avenge Victor. Following an address Henry left behind, I track down a modest house. The moment I step into the yard, however, I freeze. Victor is standing there with his arms around his younger colleague, Colette Jennings, kissing her tenderly. Nearby, a two-or-three-year-old child sits on a swing. My mind goes blank. Just as I start toward them, someone grabs me from behind. It's my mentor, George Ryland. "Victor's happy now. For your own sake, let him go." I shove him aside and fire three shots into an empty patch of ground, my expression completely blank. "Victor Ashford, you're under arrest for suspected of bigamy. Come with me."

The day the nationwide serial killer, Landis Grant, was executed, I was the one who escorted him to the death chamber. Right before the lethal injection, he turned his head and looked at me with strange, sudden pity. "You know, I only actually killed seventeen people," he whispered, his raspy voice cutting through the silent room. "I deserve to die, no question. But your hotshot lawyer wife? Her death isn't on my tab." Hearing him mention my wife, Valerie Foster, made a hot surge of rage claw up my throat. Three years ago, she was stabbed dozens of times by Landis while protecting crucial evidence. I drove through the night from out of state, only to find her body completely unrecognizable at the morgue. Grief tore through me so violently that I collapsed, coughing up blood, and spent an entire month confined to a hospital bed. For three years, I chased Landis to the absolute edge of hell, risking everything just to drag him in and avenge her. Following the address Landis had left behind, I made my way to a quiet suburban house. The second I set foot in the yard, I froze completely. Valerie was right there, wrapping her arms around her former mentor, Dylan Reed, kissing him with a tenderness that shattered my heart. A toddler, around two or three years old, was swinging back and forth on a wooden swing right beside them. My head throbbed, white noise roaring in my ears. I took a step forward, but someone grabbed my shoulder from behind. It was my chief, Noah Morgan, the man I respected more than anyone on the force. "Valerie is happy now, son," he said quietly, "Do yourself a favor and just walk away. Let it go." I shoved his hand off my shoulder. Unholstering my service weapon, I aimed into the open air and fired three warning shots. "Valerie Foster, you're under arrest for bigamy," I said, my voice dead and completely cold, "Come to the station with me."