Burari Case Diary Notes Novels & Stories

My chest is still damp. Streaks of piss and sweat marked her body. I slowly pull out, watching my cum drip from her used pussy. It is white and thick, mingling with her clear juices on the tiles. But we're not done. The ritual escalates. I help her up, both of us slippery. I sit on the edge of the tub. She straddles me, pulling. She is now turned away, with her ass toward my face. I spread her cheeks to see her tight hole and the cum-filled pussy below it.

The water aided my blood flow through its normal route relieving the throbbing pain between my legs. I repeated my question to her without breaking a sweat. Incredibly large breasts or not, I was going to focus on doing my job. "Well, she had this diary. It was a ghastly thing." "A diary." I scribbled down on my notepad. "Anything else?" I couldn't see how a stripper's diary was going to help me solve a murder investigation. "No. Just the diary. I can remember it now because it had her initials written on the front cover."

She gathered them all, placed them in a fire basin, and burned them. Bennett had a diary filled with notes about her preferences. The first page stated that she had a heart condition and needed special care, followed by a list of precautions. Things that had once felt like love now felt like a sharp blade, cutting her open and leaving her bleeding. The second page noted her alcohol allergy, warning that she must never drink. Yet, hadn't she downed those 88 glasses of alcohol under his watchful eyes? The fiery taste had burned straight into her heart.

“Emergency Motion for Bail Modification and Asset Access: On behalf of Ms. Cassie Vance.” I leaned back in my leather chair, my fingers wrapped under my chin, my lips curving into a cold,amused smile. I tapped the screen, scrolling through the attached medical exhibits. There it was, stamped by a private clinic: a certified laboratory report confirming a positive pregnancy test, dated exactly forty-eight hours after her initial arrest.

MAYALINA May 14th 2018 I pick up the large sack of rubbish from the bar, fling it over my shoulder and wobble my weak butt to the back entrance where the large skip bins are. I walk through the halls and look into the rooms as I pass them by. All the doors are open except the room that used to be mine. Things have been really slow on our side of the wing lately. It's like we've all dispersed for our own painful reasons.

Ro'Sau is somehow happy with the ongoing trial because he will have more time to plan the success of his daughter's birthday and probably, Heena would take over the leadership position earlier before she clocks twenty-seven years. The file that Mr. Bari brought for him is his great masterpiece plan for Heena, even if the files fall into the wrong hands, they can't do anything with it, the words inside are encrypted, and only he knows the deciphering key. The least they would do to it is to burn it and he doesn't want that to happen. Mr. Ro'Sau was confident that the trial wouldn't linger for more than seven days. He knew all the accusations were fabricated and the authorities would do the ri

I pulled an unmarked folder free from the furthest corner, and a wave unease crashed over me. This wasn’t just paper and ink, I could feel the malice vibrating in my nerves. It was a record of lives stolen, futures erased. Grainy and stark photographs showed small, cold forms wrapped in lace, newborn pups whose eyes would never see daylight again. Beside them, names, dates, clinical notes, all of it a catalog of cruelty. ‘Subject 402: Discarded. Essence insufficient for the ritual.’ Zebub’s unmistakable elegant, looping, precise handwriting detailed a massacre.

Driven by some unseen force, I pried open the board. Lying underneath was an iron box wrapped tightly in oil paper. Opening it, I found a thick leather-bound diary and a hard drive sealed in an anti-static bag. A sticky note was attached to the hard drive, bearing my father's shaky handwriting: **[Five years in the making, data finally recovered. This is the best wedding gift for Elara.]** Trembling, I opened the diary first. I expected it to be filled with resentment over the family bankruptcy or worries about the future.

It had once held records of births, trades, and border claims—until it had mysteriously burned three years ago. Now, only bones of shelves remained, warped metal hinges and scraps of names lost to flame. He stared at the ruins, brow furrowed. A youth from Embervale approached him quietly, carrying a charred booklet. “You’re Harel?” He nodded stiffly. The boy handed it over. “Found this between the stones. Didn’t burn all the way.” Harel opened it. Inside were partial lists of grain trade exchanges—mundane—and then, near the end, a string of names and debts. But scrawled between the margins were notes:

“With effort, speed, and a clerk who thinks fear sweat is cologne.” “That is not reassuring.” “It was not intended to reassure. It was intended to inform.” She lifted the flap of the case. “Blackwater has its originals. The council has its official copies. Now we have ours.” Elara stared at the closed case. Medical records. The words did not belong in this warm room with the low fire and Darius’s hand still near hers. They belonged to white stone corridors, sharp herbs, cold instruments, clean cuffs, and voices that made pain sound like a disappointing result.