Jeff The Killer Photos Novels & Stories

“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

I already knew he took the pictures, but now I needed to know why. I knocked once. I could hear low voices inside, but no answer came. Growing impatient, I pushed the door open slightly and stepped in. The voices were coming from his open laptop on the desk, but he wasn’t there. I called out his name. Then the bathroom door by the wall pulled open. Jeff walked out with water splashed over his face. He looked like a shadow of himself… pale, trembling, eyes wide with panic. “Jeff?” I drawled.

Jefferson said, and spat on the floor. “He won’t find you. Your car has no tracking system, your phone’s at the motel. He’ll reach that dead end and even if he knows where I live, which I’m sure he does, he won’t get to me. I went to prison an innocent man, but I left there a murderer. I killed seven men in prison, got myself the name ‘Wrath’ on the inside. You think you know me, but you don’t. You sitting in that chair … that’s what I do now. I kill men like you for money and I’m really fucking good at it. You turned me into this.” “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Kill me if that’s what you have planned,” Jefferson said.

I pulled out a photograph and placed it on top of the envelope. Kristoff. His eyes sharpened instantly. “This man,” I said, voice low, controlled. “I want him found. I don’t care where he is. I don’t care how far you have to go. Ends of the earth if necessary.” He studied the photo in silence. “This is the one making headlines,” he said finally. “The Alleged Killer.” “Yes,” I said. “And I’m tired of having him haunt my family.” I reached back into my bag and brought out a second envelope…thicker. Heavier. I dropped it beside the first.

Sean asked. "I said it was Colonel Zinn," Diego replied. "Good," Sean said. This approach spared him the trouble of lengthy explanations. After all, he preferred to keep his involvement with Melania and Blake to a minimum. "What about that guy? Has he confessed everything?" Sean cut to the chase. Since Diego had called him, it meant that the interrogation was wrapping up. "He spilled everything," Diego reported. "His name's Jeff, and he's a mercenary out of Wysteria. He was hired this time by a woman named 'Ms. J' to assassinate Blake in Skye City."

I gasped and looked at it incredulously. Curiously. It was a human’s head dangling between his teeth yet— I do not fear any sense of fear even when he draws closer. And closer. Zarion went to the edge of the cliff, throwing the man’s head in the frozen waterfall. I only waited for the thud to echo to know that it landed. I turned to him, face full of unexplainable emotions.“Oh God, why did you kill him?”

“Well, wasn't it broadcast everywhere, on all the television channels? I'm sure you've watched it. Jeff died because he fired a gun at his own heart.” “No, you said Jeff was shot, not committed suicide.” Shanon narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You killed him." Calvin raised his face to face the cabin ceiling, his hands on his hips and he stood with his back to Shanon. He smiled at first, but suddenly that smile turned into a very loud and discordant laugh. He laughed in front of Shanon like a psychopath who had just been caught in the act of committing a crime. “Congratulations. You managed to guess correctly. I killed Jeff.”