Books About Murder Mystery Novels & Stories

My curiosity started when Freeda suddenly thought that I was a vampire, she was so weird at that time. I also got up and picked up the book on my desk. This book is all about Dracula, written by Bram Stoker. I haven't read any books on the shelves, I'm not into reading. It's boring. Well, Enzo and Flynn are the bookworms in the pack, they loved to stay at the library. Enzo loved to read romance books and that's gross, while Flynn loved to read mystery thriller books of Agatha Christie. He once pushed me to read the book, Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle but I refused, I was busy painting some sceneries.

Then I got back to my research again browsing through criminal cases described in news articles and web forums. An hour passed and I was tired of reading bloody stories that got me nowhere near something I could use in the novel, so I began to grumble on one of the mystery-crime forums. “Help me out. Have you heard of any interesting murder case nowadays? I swear, I’m not a psycho, I’m a writer begging for an inspiration,” I hoped that sounded convincing enough. No one was answering. I’d waited for an hour and got little bit frustrated. I was about to get back to my previous way of research but then someone replied.

Her Chosen Mate (Book 3) *** 1. Can't Help Falling in Love (Book 1) 2. Purchased By The Mafia (Book 2) 3. Her Mysterious Lover (Book 3) 4. My Girlfriend is Mafia Queen (Book 4) 5. Loving A Mafia (Book 5)- Upcoming **** 1. Chosen By An Alpha (Stand-Alone) No One POV . A loud wailing could be heard from a child who was crying because of the hunger, but her father, on the other side, was busy in fucking someone else. Tears came out from a four-month-old infant due to suffocation and hunger.

A moment later, a piece of paper slid through the narrow gap beneath my door. The footsteps retreated in haste. I peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I didn't touch the note, afraid of smudging fingerprints. Instead, I crouched and read the words on it: I know the truth about Edmund's death. Come to the big banyan tree in Greenfield Residences at 11 p.m. Don't call the police. The note was crafted with meticulous care—letters cut out from newspapers and books, pieced together like a ransom demand, leaving no trace of handwriting.

Her hands tightened around the case files, the paper crumpling beneath her grip. Was Damian Voss a suspect? Or was he something worse? Evelyn leaned back in her chair, rubbing her head, the weight of the evidence pressing down on her. It wasn’t enough to make an arrest, but it all pointed in one direction—Damian Voss. Billionaire. Businessman. Untouchable. And somehow, connected to these murders. Her thoughts were interrupted by a noise—something shifting outside her window. Evelyn tensed, reaching for her gun. She lived on the fourth floor. No one should be out there.

Popping open the buttons again, I grabbed a random book from the pile and knocked on the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but I seem to have a problem with…” I cast a cursory look at the book I’d grabbed and was appalled to see it was a literature book, “…this book.” He arched his brow. “Time to kill" by John Grisham . I got it because I was told it’s one of the books in this year’s syllabus, even though I wasn’t sure if Literature is one of the subjects you’re interested in. I haven’t read it though, so I might not be of much help.”

BELLA The 21-year-old girl from North Carolina, missing for ten months, found dead. Suicide or murder?—the morning headline said. I was tired of hearing Mamma’s sob every time I entered this house. The more I wanted to forget what I had seen, the more I sank. The feeling of guilt seared within me, like a flame that never douted. “I don’t understand why the police are claiming it to be suicide when it isn’t,” Val said, sitting at the edge of the bed. “She goes missing for a year straight. Then, she’s found drowned in a lake.”

He’d made it his career to follow Blackwell up and down the East Coast, transferring from department to department over the years. After a triple murder in Baltimore, he’d picked up on something in a forensics report the FBI had missed—spores at a crime scene, from some gourmet mushroom produced in only a half-dozen places in the country. He’d put six brown pins in the map on his wall at his rental, one for each location.

My mother, Samantha, believed I was born a liar. Because she was deceived by my father's sweet words in her youth and abandoned after giving birth to me and my sister, Mia, she harbored a deep, bitter hatred for lies. She begged a witch for two magic rings. The rule was simple: if the wearer lied, the ring would glow red and burn them with magic. Mia's ring never hurt her, even when she broke a vase and blamed it on me. But if I simply said, "I'm thirsty," my ring would sear my flesh until I screamed. At first, I tried to defend myself, but Mom would just say, "The ring doesn't lie. Only through repeated punishment can your wicked soul be cleansed." After thousands of burns, even I started t

He wondered what he had done so wrong. He killed his beloved dog for me, kicked out all the dogs he kept, distanced himself from other long-legged beauties, and even married me. I sliced through a bloody steak. I looked at him tied to an electric chair and said coldly, “I love watching my prey die slowly. I’ve been doing it since I killed my first bird at the tender age of three. “Too bad that I don’t have any prey around anymore. I kind of forgot what that felt like. But Dominic, you’ve helped me find that part of myself again.”