Author Of Book Thief Novels & Stories

“What mai—” The words died as I followed her gaze. A plain brown envelope lay beside her boot. My brows snapped together. “Who the hell dropped this?” I muttered, crouching to snatch it up. We never got mail. Not bills, not flyers, nothing. Wrong house, I almost decided until I flipped it over and saw the two words scrawled in precise black ink across the front: To Little Thief. My heart did a sickening flip. Little Thief. Only one person had ever called me that.

I try for my words to sound Stern but even I could hear the uncertainty drenched into my voice. “Of course.” Victor nodded as he approach me before leaning in closer. “If this was anyone else you would not have gotten away with this.” He whisper into my ear as I pass him. I figured that would be the case, but I was never one hundred percent certain; I couldn’t believe that he would let it go so far. Even with the death of his only son, until now. I had my suspicion before but I wasn’t in any position to ask questions. I grew up in this house. I learnt everything I know by slipping through these halls as a kid. I heard things for god-sake. I delivered those checks to the children’s home every

But they didn’t hit bottom. They landed on a soft, glowing surface—a giant open book, appearing out of nowhere. Near the edge sat a young man in a t-shirt and jeans, a pencil behind his ear. He looked like any student. “Nice catch,” said the young man, smiling kindly. Maya helped Julian up and held the iron key, ready to fight. “Who are you? Are you an Editor?” “Me? No,” the kid laughed, standing up. “I’m the Ghostwriter. The Author hired me when she was too tired to finish your story. I’ve been keeping you alive while the Board tried to delete everything.”

Although I’ve never met any of them in person so far, but at weird, hideous hours I’ve often googled them after the shortlist was declared in July. Georgiana Andrews, to my left is a middle-aged professional traveller from New Zealand, a life coach, an avid blogger and the author of six best sellers over the last thirteen years. And this young chap from Sri Lanka, Kumara Tharsan Desanayake, is a debutante like me. What did The Guardian say about him – a rage across the hemispheres, a ruthlessly honest artist of human conscience? He stands a good chance. Kumara and I are staying at the same hotel. That’s veteran Simon Mawer, next to Tharsan, shortlisted second time for the prize for his new b

I feel safe being alone here because I know there are two guards outside the library. If only I could do something to help Damon. If only I had the ability to recognize who betrayed Damon. I put down the book I was reading on the table and looked at the high shelves in the library and suddenly the book I saw before came to my mind. That book was written by Alpha Devon and there is a faint suspicion that there is a torn page in that book. I know it's not unusual for a book to be torn because it's natural for a book, to tear and get old...but that book was strange. The book is old, but you will know that every paper used is durable. It can't just be torn because of its old age.

When my shift ended, I found myself walking toward the corner table where Kael sat, his laptop closed now, a book in his hands. I stopped short when I saw the cover. ‘Knot We Cannot Untie.’ That was the book he was holding. I can't believe that Kael would be reading one of Linda Lively’s books. “You read… this?” I said, the surprise evidently in my voice. Kael looked up, one brow raised. “Why? You think I only read racing magazines and bank statements?” I gave a small laugh. “Chill bro. It’s just… not what I was expecting ”

She bent down to pick it up. "The Art of Pain" she read on the book cover. "Written by Lirio Dorado." She looked up at the person who had thrown the book. It was a young man of the same height, thin, with white skin. He was dressed in a casual black coat, and a black woolen hat covered his head. She looked at him coldly, adjusting her scarf with her right hand while holding her umbrella with her left. She dared to say, "Sotomayor Jina, you will never change..."

How could such a thing happen to Arielle? “Wait,” Crystal said, holding up the book she’d been reading earlier. “Are you the author of this book?” Arielle smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes, Maa. That’s one of mine.” Crystal’s expression softened momentarily before she straightened her posture. “How about I talk to Gabriel’s assistant? Maybe I can get them to listen.” All this time when she thought Arielle had good points over the book meant the girl was the one crafting it. She had no words for Arielle right now. Yet she was not upset but quite happy with it.

Out of boredom, she walked over to a small open bookshelf on one side and casually read a book to pass the time. Such a large room seemed much more empty. There was always a cold feeling when one was alone here. But Leona didn't care and just wanted to wait until the banquet downstairs was over. Leona was stunned when she opened the title page of the book. It read, "To Emma of the Quiet Years, wishing you well. The writing is. Jovanka." This book was published by... Jovanka? Leona flipped to the back, and the author was clearly written with the word Jovanka.

I asked coldly, “Who did that?” I raised my head. My cold gaze drifted around the room and finally settled on the book in Vivian’s hand. She sneered, “Now you are finally back. I thought you wouldn’t dare to come back after stealing from others.” “What do you mean? You mean I have stolen something?” I asked with a sneer. “Yes, it was you. You stole the book, the one with an autograph!” She raised the book, “And here it is. I just found it in your bag.”