L Handwriting Death Note Novels & Stories

“Mr. Lynch, I understand that you’re trying to find your ex-wife. I know you must be anxious about it, too.” One of the experts took his spectacles off and sighed heavily. “But, I have to tell you seriously: the handwriting on these two are made by two different people. The way and habits of writing are completely different. It can’t be done by the same person.” Joshua frowned hard at his words. Actually, when Lucas brought Luna Gibson’s diary over a moment ago, Joshua had already realized that the two handwritings were completely different. He did not know why when he saw Luna’s handwriting, he immediately thought of Luna Gibson.

I placed the slightly rumpled paper on an open page and my blood ran cold. The handwriting on the suicide note was different from the one in her diary.

She added. "Yes, that reminds me, talking about messages, he placed a note beside her and it seems to be for you Lyra!" He said bringing out the note from his back pocket. It was folded neatly, with Luna written on it in block letters. Lyra slowly took it from it and opened it. "Your empire crumbles. Death follows in its wake, my goal will surely be accomplished, one victim at a time. Tirich" she read out loud and slowly looked up at them.

I pull out the first note with trembling hands. I walked inside the sitting room. Lucas followed behind. I started comparing the handwriting on both. They match perfectly. But then i noticed something. there's an additional line scrawled at the bottom. One word i have seen written this exact way a hundred times before, on birthday cards, on notes left in my kitchen over the years. Soon. Signed with the same looping D that Dian always used to sign her name.

She mutters to herself like mental note, and hands over the paper to me. I flatten out the suicide note, my hands shaking. For a second, I start hoping this is all an elaborate prank; a way Lexie had planned to get back at me for being angry at her. I start hoping I’ll read the note and it’ll say something along the lines of ‘gotcha sucker’ and Lexie would spring back to life, laughing her windshield laughter. But only two lines stare back at me in black ink, squiggly and cramped just like I remember Lexie’s handwriting.

"Because he wasn’t." He rubbed his hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted again. "I read the suicide note at the station a few days ago. The handwriting... it was close...really close. But it wasn’t his, I’d recognize his writing anywhere...big, messy loops, always slanting to the right like he was in a hurry. This was neater, like someone tried to mimic it, but they didn’t quite get it right." The room fell silent. I felt that creeping dread return, the same feeling that had whispered suspicions the moment the police showed up at his door.

Everyone inside turned to us, tita Dehlia wasn't among them though. I wish I could talk to her to explain, but I don't know how to do that so she’d listen and understand my situation. Plus there's Lideon with his threats. I stopped walking again when the coffin was right in front of me. My body is almost numb and I can't feel anything. My eyes are stuck on his picture just above the coffin. He was smiling at the picture. It reached his eyes which made them spark and bright.

But when I opened it and continued to see blank, I started getting confused. There was nothing but a single line of handwritten elegant script. “If Dimitri dies, so do you.” My skin turns pale instantly. Lucian peeks at the words and froze. Not only was the handwriting familiar, but the phrase. Dimitri himself had used it once, exactly as was written, though a completely different context. I stared at the words, my mind repeating a mantra over and over again. “He’s fucking dead.”

The way the strokes bled just a little too heavily at the ends. My own handwriting. Lyra’s handwriting. The air vanished from my lungs. My knees weakened beneath me. I couldn’t breathe

pleasantly, correctly, saying nothing that can be reported as anything other than courteous. Her eyes find me seven times during dinner. I count them. Dylan's hand finds mine under the table at the fourth time. I hold it until the eighth. I find the note when I return to my room at ten. It has been slid under the door .... folded once, no envelope, the fold of something prepared quickly rather than with advance planning. I pick it up. I open it. The handwriting is not Asha's. Not Dylan's. Small, slanted, the handwriting of someone writing quickly and not for record. Eight words