Female Mystery Books Novels & Stories

“Five in a series, this is the last book. I write under a pen name because I don’t want anyone to know my real identity.” “Oh.” “Oh,” I repeated with a smile. “What genre is it?” she asked after a while. I hesitated. “Murder Mystery.” She bit her lip. “Have you ever written about us?” “No.” Her eyes darted over my face. “You wanted to.” I nodded. “But it felt wrong to do that because it’s not just my story to tell.” Swallowing, she placed the file down and settled against my chest again. A sigh fell from her lips as her body slowly relaxed against mine.

Then she shed her own clothes, standing naked and confident, her body a mature mirror of the hunger I felt. She grabbed my hair again, gentler this time but still commanding, and took Mason’s hand. “Upstairs. Both of you.” We followed her in stunned silence to the master bedroom. She led us past the familiar bed to a door I had never noticed before — tucked behind a heavy curtain. When she opened it, my breath caught. The room was a hidden sanctuary of sin. Dim red lighting. A massive bed with built-in chains and restraints. Hooks on the walls. Handcuffs, paddles, and other implements hanging neatly. I had never known this part of my mother existed.

"A... used one?" "A romantic mystery," you said, showing her the front. "It's from the seventies, and is about a female detective who gets involved with the man who hires her to investigate his wife's murder. I'm hoping it's got Castle vibes." She broke into a smile, taking the book from you and turning it over in her hands. Then she kissed you again, on her tiptoes. "Has anyone told you that you're the sweetest?" she asked. "Not today," you smiled.

“No doubt.” “What about those two small FedEx boxes?” “Most recent novels from Samhain Horror.” “Awesome. Those books I bought at the Webb County Library sale last week?” “Sorted into general and mystery fiction. Struck the mother lode with all those Mary Higgins Clark novels.” “We cater to all tastes, miss. Unless you like Twilight, 50 Shades of Gray or James Patterson. Folks want drivel, they can drive to Utica.” “Hey. I actually liked Twilight. It wasn’t all bad.”

Sabeerah brought them out one by one. Muslim Girl and If I Speak by Umm Zakiyyah, The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides, Three Daughters Of Eve by Elif Shafak, On Black Sister's Street by Chika Unigwe, And Then There Was None by Agatha Christie, A Time To Kill by John Grisham and finally, A History Of The Wives Of Prophet Muhammad by Umam Kahn. She picked up the last book which was actually a journal and tucked in its side were plack pencils with bookish scribbles on them.

She had poisoned herself and it was not only the alcohol's fault, but also the constant stress and exhaustion that had been accumulating for a long time. As she passed by the bookshelves, she decided to take some book to read. She was delighted with Matthew's collection. There were all the books written by Clive Cussler, one of her favourite writers, as well as a lot of books by Michael Crichton and Duncan Falconer. What surprised her more was to see all of John Grishams' novels.

even as he spoke, his hands came up to grip her own. For one perilous moment, Betty's mind betrayed her and she was reminded of other hands. Hands upon her body. Hands that had forced her down. Drawn by a force she couldn't command, her gaze tricked down….. down to where dark fingers caught her own. They were strong, those hands. Lean and powerful. Tanned and wholly male. Those hands had grasped her waist, traced the slant of her cheek, skimmed the bareness of her very breast, immeasurably gentle despite their strength. Those hands had made her tremble, but not in fear. Not, not in fear…… never in fear.

he smiled mischievously, humour in his expression, and she felt a sudden warmth spread through her, seeing a side to him that was endearing. “What is your favourite book Genevieve ?” he asked her as he put a piece of bread and cheese in his mouth. “I tend to read books on ghosts and things like that.” He laughed, “Why?” “I guess it’s the mystery of the unknown, the fascination of whether it’s true or not.” “I see what you mean. Everyone loves a good mystery don’t they? Especially to things that we can never really know the truth about.” He looked at her perceptively. Again she felt as though his words held hidden meaning and guilt flooded her at the thought of her true intentions.

It looked very ancient as it was torn at some edges. “I picked this up during one of my research trips.” She said as she handed the book to Annabelle. “ It has some information on Luke but it doesn’t state his weakness. Although it did leave some clues. Difficult clues.” Annabelle opened the book. The words were written as if from a feather dipped in ink which signified the age of the book. Annabelle read it out:

The windows faced the gardens, and the morning light was golden and warm and poured across the reading chairs like honey. She ran her fingers along the spines. Classics, histories, business books that probably belonged to Alexander. Nothing that looked even remotely interesting. “Where do they keep the fun books?” She moved to a different shelf where the light didn't quite reach. There were older volumes here—paperbacks mixed with hardcovers, spines cracked from actual use instead of just decoration. “This is more like it.” She crouched down, scanning titles. A thriller, a mystery and finally a romance with a cover so embarrassingly dramatic she almost laughed out loud. She reached for it an