Jeff The Killer Photos Novels & Stories

My classmates turned their heads up to us. There was a look of astonishment on their faces. Even if they wanted to ask, they could not and chose to remain silent and just listen to me and Clark talking. I laughed out loud. “It's okay if you don't ask for help anymore. It is also a waste of time because it is just crazy that you think one of us is a murderer.” Ace stood up from his seat. “What do you mean, Xienne? Clark is thinking that the killer is one of us here?”

then she excitedly shows my solo pictures. “And the two of you look great together,” she even adds. I shyly peek at the picture and somehow, I totally agree with him. Jeff is indeed good-looking, and his height is suitable for a tall girl like me. He also looks ravishing in his suit. I clear my throat, and snatch one of our pictures that look like we are almost kissing, “I’m going to keep this, you keep that one,” I demand. Jeff shyly accepts it, “Oh, my pleasure,” he answers shortly and I see him stare at the picture and smile at it.

The screen pinged again, displaying a message from an encrypted source. I clicked it open. It was a photo of Jeffery unconscious and tied to a chair. And below it, a single line of text: “You disavowed the crown. So now we wear it.”

It was an unknown number, and the message contained a high-resolution photo. It was a photo of Jeffrey sitting inside a high-end Geneva restaurant, laughing and drinking expensive wine with Arthur Vance! Below the photo was a simple text message: *'Enjoy the view from the top while it lasts, Leslie. By tomorrow, Jeffrey will take back everything you stole from him.'*

“My child... and everything she stole from me.” Then he left. For almost twenty minutes afterward, Jeffery remained standing beside the road while looking through the photographs silently. Logan stayed nearby without interrupting once. The deeper Jeffery went through the file, the colder the atmosphere around him became. The cigarette between Jeffery’s fingers burned completely afterward. Ash dropped silently onto the study floor. The memory disappeared immediately as the present returned around him again. Jeffery lowered the photograph slowly afterward before standing from the chair. The alcohol inside his system made the anger inside him darker.

When they finally finished with their questions about the statements that had been given, they started in on the files I photographed. “The pictures of files, were they obtained through a reputable source?” the leader asked. I cleared my throat, “Yes, considering I am the one who took the pictures of the files.” There was something off about the man as he smiled menacingly. “Ah yes, Alpha Heir Kendall. You accuse your father of having your own mother, his mate killed,” he sneered. “I am not accusing anything that was there in his files. As was the documentation of the rogue attack that killed Tom Gaffney and the one where Stella Gaffney was killed as well. With the notes on the amount he pa

“You’ve done it. You’ll do it. You’re going to kill us.” “No!” Malachi shot up, a piece of paper stuck to his cheek. He ripped it off, looking around the circular office stood as if a time capsule. He hadn't changed anything yet, but his father's body was burnt, so today was the day. He picked up the paintings he had been keeping for this occasion, all painted by his talented best friend. He pushed his deep auburn hair out of his face and got to work removing some of the paintings, he wouldn't remove all of them, his father didn't need to be scrubbed from the walls.

I grunted. "Jeffery is dead," Jerry revealed. I blinked in surprise as Jerry explained that Jeffery had fled the safe house to confront his ex-mate Alice. Somehow, she had wielded time-freeze magic, a formidable ancient power, and killed him. James had subsequently disposed of the evidence, leaving me to process this shocking development.

He had been a promising kid, fast with a blade and loyal to a fault. Now, he was a corpse. In a bid to humiliate him, they sat his body upright, his head lolling back against the chair, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing. "My God, Uncle. Look at his chest," Nathaniel whispered. I stepped closer, my jaw tightening until it ached. Stefan’s designer shirt, once white, was now a deep, matted crimson. But it was what was pinned to the shirt that caught my eye.

Because if you live outside this city, or if you don’t read the tabloids, or if you don’t listen to the podcasts — you might think he was just one more name on one more news cycle. He wasn’t. He was a ghost. He had been a ghost for years. Nobody had ever seen his face. Nobody had ever caught him on a traffic camera. Nobody had ever taken a photograph that wasn’t blurred silver and shadow. Seventeen confirmed kills, the last count I’d seen, and every one of them a man who had hurt someone smaller than himself and walked away from the consequence. A tabloid writer had called him the Verdict Killer in a piece three years ago and the name had stuck because it fit. Because what he did was not mur