Good Murder Mystery Novels & Stories

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

Then my wall clock stricked as it clocked 12 midnight at the dot, bringing me out of my thoughts . I might as well go for this I thought as I quickly go in and grabbed my gun. I checked if the bullets are intact ,which there are. I walked out of my house making sure the door is locked. I tip toed to the neighbour's yard . The lights inside and outside suddenly turned off that means the killer is here cause he operates in the dark. I twist the handle of the door and luckily for me the door wasn't locked . So I went in ,how I'm I gonna move around, everything is fucking dark until I heard a feminine scream

5 MINUTES LATER Lucy dropped the file back on the table “I’m done” “Hmm, so what could you deduce from the report? “ Lucy smiled “the killer was probably someone the victim knew since no form of struggle was recorded in the report and at the victim apartment there was no form of forced entry, so we can assume the killer is someone who the victim knew or is even close to since the killer was let into her bedroom, The killer is a drinker since particles of glasses that contained whiskey was found in between her flesh, so we can say that a whiskey glass bottle is the weapon of murder, The killer is obviously a special must probably a rogue special and the toxin found on her body was probably fr

The radio filled the silence before I could sit too long with my own thoughts. "Three murders were recorded this morning," the news anchor's voice floated through the car. "The corpses were brutally murdered, and there was a letter D scripted on their forehead, consistent with several past murders, which suggests they belong to the same culprit who has been active for years. Based on the state of the bodies, investigators believe they were killed several days before being discovered…"

Madeline, feeling the weight of the day, lay down and turned away from Trevon, curling into a small cocoon under the covers. He hesitated, his mouth opening and closing, unsure of how to break the silence. The air hung heavy between them once more. After a brief pause, Trevon, realizing Madeline was not asleep, finally broke the silence. "The night was pitch-black, and the firestarter got away. However, the cops are sure it was no accident—it was a cold-blooded murder. They're digging into the Yates' connections now." Madeline's eyes flickered open, and she lay in silence for a moment before speaking. "You don't have a clue who's behind this, do you?"

The policemen, realizing something was off from their conversation, brought them in. One of the policemen addressed Clifford, "Mr. Holmes, based on what we know, your wife was hospitalized after she developed lobar pneumonia. She passed away the night before Easter. The hospital explained that her death was a result of a heart attack triggered by emotional turmoil, but things seem to be more complicated from the conversation you shared with Ms. Harding."

The words landed harder than they should have. She looked away too quickly, her pulse suddenly uneven for reasons that had nothing to do with the investigation. Damian had this frustrating way of saying things like they were simple facts instead of dangerous confessions. Quinn parked the car without replying. The crime scene had already been blocked off by the time they arrived, flashing lights cutting through the quiet neighborhood. But the second Quinn stepped inside the small alley behind the café, she knew Mark had been right. This was different. The earlier murders had been clean and perfect. This one looked angry.

“Pulse still there. Naughty. Had to pick him up from the emergency room, not simple work. Thought you might enjoy seeing him burn.” The phone lowers. His finger points to the wall. “Press that button and the microwave kicks in. I put together a nice little mix. You also left the gas on, sparks fly, house goes boom. Goodbye Joe, goodbye Diego, goodbye the police department’s dirtiest detective. Goodbye problems. You are welcome.” The coffee sits warm in my hand, suddenly suspect. Eyes drop to the surface of it. Words slip out low. “I know about the vial. Still breathing.”

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.

I firmed my grip around her waist and I placed my other hand on the back of her head. We stayed like that for more than ten minutes. Once she was fully relaxed and calm, I pushed her a little away just so that I could see her beautiful jade eyes. They were still a bit red. As she fixed her running mascara, she broke the hug. She took two steps back locking eyes again with the dead man. Examining the space she noticed the gun on the floor. She went and picked it up. I looked at her, observing silently. She armed and pointed at the dead man. Her finger on the trigger, while her gaze was on me. Her eyes were saying something to me. They were trying to figure out whether I would see her differen