Harper Murphy Novels & Stories

Harper. He was a thin, stooped man, face carved with years of hardship. We found him at a run-down apartment near the docks. When I mentioned Archer Cain, his eyes darkened. “That name brings bad blood,” he said, voice low. “Who is he?” Sophia asked. Harper hesitated, then whispered, “He was a fixer for the orphanage bosses. Kept the dirty work quiet. Maurice got tangled with him years ago. Dangerous man. Cold as ice.”

Jasmine shook her head; she wouldn't agree no matter what methods they used. "You misunderstand. I really didn't come to ask you to drop the charges. My parents did something wrong." Harper comforted softly. "Actually, I just wanted to meet you." Harper wore a white dress, her entire demeanor seemed ethereal and otherworldly. She carefully rolled up her sleeves, revealing two pristine arms covered in countless scars from self-harm.

He snapped his head toward Xavier, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Xavier met his gaze. His eyes narrowed in a clear, wordless warning. Kade’s expression shifted instantly; his lips pressed into a thin line. He gave a small, tight nod, then carried the jar back to the high table. The fuck is going on here? My throat was dried, but I forced myself to the microphone. “She’s so sugglish.” someone whispered from the crowd. I swallowed hard “Thank you, Mr. Cross. I’m Veronica Harper. I run a small bakery in Atlanta—I started it five years ago, and I’ve been building it bit by bit. It really means a lot to be recognized here tonight.”

Harper tilts her head to the side as she gives me the most bewildered look and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This sparks so many questions in my mind, wondering what her life was like before the Academy and how it is that she doesn’t have something as simple as a comfort food. I put the car in drive and tell her, “Don’t worry, I’ll pick something for us.” I pull up to a home style restaurant that has a variety of food, but my favorite comfort food is their chicken and dumplings. Harper has me order for her so I get us a variety of things to try. The waitress leaves and I look back to Harper with a smile, but it quickly fades as I see that she’s last in a vision. I sit and w

The number spins in my head like a winning slot machine. Twenty-five thousand. That's... everything. Freedom. Rent paid. Loans gone. I could breathe. I could sleep. I could write again. I could feel like a person instead of a collection of overdraft fees and anxiety. I hate that I'm considering this. I hate that she knows I would. I stare at Harper—the perfect storm of desperation and manipulation. She's still her. Still sharp, still selfish, still glowing with that effortless "main character" energy I never quite understood. And yet... beneath the gloss, she looks terrified. Like she's one wrong move away from crumbling.

Opening the door, Christiana stood in front of her. "I forgot my handbag and umbrella at your house." "So sorry for the inconvenience." Her voice was laced with remorse. Staring at her, Daisy Hunter said," What, No, it's really okay…I too forget my stuff in people's homes." Daisy Hunter said, smiling gleefully, exposing her perfect dentition. Stepping into the dimly lit room, Christiana spotted her handbag and umbrella, grabbing it, she thanked Daisy and stepped out immediately.

I asked, still shocked that he brought me to the infamous MET, one of the places I really wanted to visit. He guided me up the set of stairs to the wide doors that were closed as he answered, “I thought you’d like it. There's a showing tonight by Denise Harper.” My steps faltered and I slowly turned to face him. Denise Harper was one of the renowned artist who does portraits, perfectly showing human emotions with all the complexity that one couldn’t even guess the enormity of what was displayed in front of them. I had read arguments over her paintings and the way people describe it. I had started to follow her work not too long ago, her style of painting emotions with colours on the canvas h

‘It’s a jungle. The inspector’s wife joined in the laughter, ‘Is that an invitation I am hearing, Navpreet?’ The sub-inspector opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Mrs Rashid. ‘So what’s with you two experts – you have a murder mystery on your hands – it is a very sad thing though ... Esha Arora ... very sweet girl ... you ask anyone ... Esha Arora was a very sweet girl they will say, very committed towards her work – genuinely cared for all the employees – but fate ... what can you do about it? I’d assume you two must have made significant progress in identifying the murderer ... sorry ... sorry ... I shouldn’t interfere. I am very sorry.’ She stopped to catch a breath.

Though he seemed to be about twice the size I remembered… “Ta-da! The man Harper has returned from Spain as a dominant alpha!” “No, seriously, who are you?” * * * Who is Harper? He was honest, energetic, and bright, but went through endless terrible incidents and gradually became more depressed, unwillingly became pregnant and even had a miscarriage, and ultimately lost his own life—truly a man of tragic fate… or rather, he was a ‘dominant omega.’ With blond hair and green eyes, a pitiful appearance, short stature, androgynous features, and a herbivorous beautiful boy style like a baby hamster… I think the novel definitely described him that way.

Vivian Harper walked to the witness stand the way she did most things — without hurry, without performance, with the complete attention of a woman who had decided exactly where she was going and was simply going there. She was fifty-three years old. She looked like someone who had survived something that had no category — not illness, not accident, not the visible kinds of loss that people know how to recognise. Twenty-three years of a different kind of disappearance, the kind you choose because the alternative is death, and all that time visible in the quality of her stillness rather than in any visible damage. She had come through something and she was here and she was entirely herself.