Jeremy Francis Novels & Stories

I called, wanting to throw the question about Jeremy, but before I could do that, he stopped abruptly and turned around, looking at me intently. "He is killing the slaves because they wouldn't talk about who had killed one of his men. Francis. That is the name of the dead man. He is starting with the male slaves. That is why I believe that Jeremy is in trouble." Nick mentioned, solidifying the fact that he was reading my mind. If not, how would he have known what I had been about to ask him. But that wasn't even my major concern, his statement had stopped me short. Francis?

How could I have believed him after everything he’s done? “You have only one option. Leave or die.” Dad’s snarl runs through me. “I’ll never leave without my son.” “A son for a son. Bring back my son, and then you’ll have yours,” Jeremy spits. “He’s just a baby!” I hiss. “How could you use him like that?” “Francis is my son, and he loved you despite your constant betrayal,” Jeremy shouts, still aiming the gun at me, anger blazing in his eyes. “Francis is alive!” I retort. “Let me and my son leave, and I’ll make sure I bring him back to you.”

Oh shit" Jemi heard the thud. She went back to the sitting room. Emma's dad had her sketch pad, looking at it with sheer interest, when he saw her he said sincerely " this is the cleanest sketch I ever saw" "Thanks" so as not to seem rude she added "it's Greek" " figured that out, I'm Greek, Grey hair messed up the sleek look" Jemi didn't expect the laugh, but it came, pouring out from her throat, "sorry didn't mean that" "No offence taken," he stretched his right hand 'name's Lucas"

Emma got impatient with his whole questioning; her tone rose sharply. “Alright, just calm down,” Francis said, pointing at the seat his colleague had stood up from, “Have a seat, at least.” Emma sat down reluctantly. “He’s a private investigator; he works for most of the big boys of New York,” he said, “He has cracked a lot of cases in the past, and he’s currently on something for Max West, CEO of West Engineering Company.”

Then I hand it to him. Jeremy stares at the glass. His hand shakes once before he steadies it. He wraps both hands around it and drinks everything in one go. And then, he lowers the empty glass, frowning. "That's weird." "What?" "It tastes sweet." I lower my own glass. "It's vitamin C." Jeremy blinks. "What?" "You look malnourished." For a second, silence fills the room. Then Jeremy bursts out laughing. "Dude," he says, shaking his head. "That is such a Hayden thing to do."

’ Pete noticed her frowning at the screen. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What was the name of the guy, the drug dealer or whatever he is who put a price on the Reiver’s head?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Harris, Gordon Harris, why?” “There was a victim of the massacre called Paul Harris, his DNA profile is here, I tested it myself. Maybe they are related?” she looked at Pete questioningly.

His voice cracks and becomes high-pitched, as if he had just hit puberty, and I can't help but snicker. "Fine? Is she really just fine? Fine doesn't cut it for me. Fine is too neutral. I don't like neutral." Thomas's gaze falls on the man's nametag. "Jester. So, tell me, is she great? Healthy? Do I need to worry about her not being able to breathe in the middle of the night?" Jester shakes his head as he places an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. Ah, that feels good. I take a deep breath, savoring the oxygen, and then relax.

“I haven’t cried since I was twelve.” He didn’t joke. Just sat still. “That’s not a flex.” “I wasn’t trying to brag.” “Sometimes strength isn’t not crying,” he said. “Sometimes it’s knowing when to let yourself fall apart.” Natasha looked at him, unsettled by how much that hit. He just sipped his drink. She turned to the window. “Your turn.” “My real name’s not Jeremy.” “What?” “It’s Jeromias. But people butcher it, so... Jeremy is stuck.”

He staggered backwards and crouched to the floor as his ears rang. Then he turned towards the familiar voice. "You almost killed me, Greg!" "I didn't mean that," Greg said. A man in his mid-fifties. He had greying hair and dark eyes. He was of average height and he donned a white lab coat that was reaching his knees and under it, he wore blue jeans and a plaid short-sleeved blue shirt. Greg, also known as Dr. Greg, the latter was the term he was often referred to as. He was a research doctor and a friend of Governor Silas.

A usual, I can’t feel any pain no matter what they do but I do gain bruises, wounds and scratches. “I want to ask something,” I bravely approached them while they are on the couch. My stepmom doing her nails and dad smoking. “What nonsense is it?” dad asked. “Who is Angelo?” My question made my dad cough looking unprepared of it. My stepmom stopped what she’s doing too with widened eyebrows. I heard silent curses too from both of them checking up if I’m serious about my question. “No. We don’t know him.” I can see he is lying.