Crime Drama Book Novels & Stories

I feel my hands sweating with nervousness. I can hear the cars stopping in front of the house. Slowly I walk to the wall-size windows, and I peak out. I am curious to see my future dear husband. One thing is for sure. He should sleep with one eye open because I might kill him in his sleep and become a black widow. I have no problem with that. I close my eyes, shaking my head. I think my books have a bad influence on me. This would be a good plot. I make a mental note to write that story. A mafia story. Who knows. It might even be a best-selling story.

She was a former head of investigative unit in BSI convicted of serial murder and uttering reports… a case that had never sat right with him. It all clicked with a horrifying clarity. The puzzle pieces Zhedya had never wanted him to find were suddenly falling into place, and they painted a picture much bigger, much darker, than just one obsessed man. Ian looked from Agent Miller’s determined, honest face to Soren’s pleading one. Then his gaze drifted down the long, sterile hallway, toward the room where the devil he knew lay broken. He was being asked to make a choice.

"Oh, hey. Ms. Rodriguez assigned our new book for social studies. We're doing a unit on redemption and criminal justice." My stomach tightened. "What book?" "Some memoir by a guy who went to prison. 'The Monster I Was.' Have you heard of it?" Nova dropped the spatula. Elena looked up. "What? Is it bad or something?" I moved to look at her phone screen. There it was. The book cover with Darren's face—older, gentle, reformed. The face of a man who'd found peace. The face of the man who'd shot me. "Elena," I said carefully. "Who's the author?"

Liana pov A baby? A woman in London? Pregnant. I looked at the book in my lap. The words on the page had stopped meaning anything several seconds ago. They were just shapes now. Just marks on paper. Some woman he’s been with. I thought about the night. About his hands and his voice and the way he had looked at me afterward, are you okay, like it mattered. Like I mattered. I thought about something came up on a folded piece of paper.

The background sound from the TV filled the empty space and made her feel less fidgety. Ping. A message dropped, Alina was being transferred to Mexico for her pending detective case. “It can't be a coincidence.” she thought. This was her life now. Alina the Assassin. Life in the underground was hell when she first joined seven years ago. Trainings were even more brutal. But the one thing that fueled her was the burning thirst for revenge, to do that she had to survive and the only way for her to survive was to join the crime family.

To feel wanted and desired and like maybe, just maybe, some things were worth the risk. Even if they were complicated. Even if they were dangerous. Even if they could destroy everything. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls as the storm raged on outside. And I lay there in the darkness, caught between what I should do and what I wanted to do, with no clear path forward and no easy answers. Just the memory of his lips on mine and his voice saying, "Come to me when you're ready." The question was - would I ever be ready?

Then, he returned to his paperwork, as if nothing happened. That momentary hesitation was all I needed to confirm that he was cheating on me. My hand was unnaturally steady as I held the coffee mug, yet my fingertips had gone white from the pressure. When Vincenzo went down to the basement armory to inspect the weapons, I unlocked his phone using the password I'd obtained with my hacking skills. From the encrypted number, I found the woman in a hidden social media app. Her profile picture is a photo of her taken by the Seranian seaside, with cascading curls framing her sweet, smiling face.

"I wondered if I'd screwed up, giving the wrong address, or if I just wasn't a worthy mom. Later, you blamed me, and everyone else believed it was my fault. I internalized the guilt, convinced I'd caused his death. We divorced, and I hollowed out until your wedding invite hit." His pupils dilated in horror. "What invite? I've never..." I raised a hand, cutting off his frantic denial. "The bride was Tessa, her voice matching that of the dragging dispatcher. I realized then it was no mishap, but murder. Her warped obsession killed Wesley and demolished us. I shattered, fleeing into a train's path..." I trailed off, but my quivering voice implied the rest. Chris's hand extended shakily but retr

Sera said. Something moved across Isla's face, the friend's face, not the journalist's. Quickly managed. The expression that meant "That's the right answer, and I'm relieved." "Good," she said. "He runs a criminal operation, or ran one and is in the process of something more complicated. That's a significant entanglement for two people who are also in love." "I know. But he's been working toward the same thing I have for twelve years. From the inside. The cases connect because they were always the same case. We're not on different sides; we're working the same side from different positions."

“Terrible business with that cop on your property. I hope you’re all right.” The absolute last thing she wanted to talk about. “It’s over.” “Is it? So they’re not coming around anymore?” His look turned apologetic. “Mystery buff. Have you read the latest Konrath?” She shook her head. She painted enough dead bodies; she didn’t want to read about more. “I wonder if the FBI made any progress in the case?” “They don’t really keep me updated,” she said as she opened the door for him. “Of course. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just…well, fascinating. Not as if we have too much excitement in Broslin.” He gave a quick laugh. “I should