Novel & Cerita Light's Sister Death Note

As Marco left, Alessia sat back down, staring again at the photo. Her sister’s eyes—so much like her own—pierced through the screen. The past was alive. And it was coming for them both. Suddenly, the lights flickered. The door to her chamber creaked open slowly. Alessia’s breath caught. But no one was there. Only a folded note lay on the floor, edges stained with something dark. She picked it up with trembling hands. In elegant script, it read: “Some debts never die. Be ready.”

Then a strange thing had happened at the house of the fifth sister -yes, each of them had a specific number they held. I remembered staring at the charred body of the woman in bemusement. One hour ago, she was a voluptuous Mediterranean woman who had just celebrated her 45th birthday. One hour ago, she’d been flinging spells with lethal accuracy and a rage befitting of the psychopaths she descended from both without the power they had exhibited. She had been tough to put down though, that much I’ll admit. If she hadn’t taken the second to gloat, Lilya would not have been able to sneak up on her. Now, she was an empty husk as the fire that had consumed her flesh sizzled out. I hadn’t stayed t

He couldn’t be the only one seeing it so he gestured for Nicho to come closer, he did and showed him, even Nicho was speechless. “Fucking hell,” Nicho mouthed. “Is that who I think it is?” Luca asked when he opened a video and it was of two women, Claudia and someone who looked almost like her. “Yes, that’s her sister who passed away, she did it, she killed her, why? Why did she choose to blame you?”

What if he was only trying to keep me close to control the girl who might destroy him? And Maya— Gods, Maya. The last line of the note burned into my brain. "Your sister doesn't have much time left." Panic slammed into me. My pulse roared in my ears as I tore out of the room, the photo and note forgotten on the floor behind me. Was my sister still poisoned? Was she going to die because of me? Tears welled up in my eyes as I hurried down the hallway only to see my sister wheeling herself towards me. She gave me a smile, and my movements faltered, relief sinking into me.

“Who is it?” Another knock. Louder this time. Luciano pulled on his pants, shirt forgotten, and crossed the room with silent speed. Aria threw on a robe and followed him to the front of the villa. He opened the door—gun at his side. It was the sister. The same half-sister Aria had met earlier. But this time, her face was pale, her hands trembling. “There’s no time,” she said breathlessly. “He’s dead.” Luciano blinked. “Who?”

Curiosity gets the better of me. I pick it up and flip it open. My stomach drops. Names. Dates. Dosages. Page after page. Dozens of entries. “What the hell…” I continue reading. Then I see a name that instantly turns my blood to ice. Kinsley Pennet. My sister. Everything around me suddenly goes silent. My pulse pounds in my ears. I stare at the page. The date listed beside her name is the same week she died. The same party. The same overdose.

Even after a decade, we still did not know our neighbours first names and only entered their houses when necessary, which never happened. "Good afternoon," I say making sure to stand a few feet away so the leaves won't land on me. He stops shearing and smiles at me and says a good afternoon, there are wrinkles around his eyes and his hands are heavily veined. "My sister Lucinda died. I just thought that you should know." I can't recognize my voice, is it pain that makes my voice strained?

The words hit harder than any blow. I froze, claws inches from his throat. Valerie gasped softly behind me. Lorenzo’s eyes, usually cold, cruel, mocking, held nothing but raw, unmasked fury. “Annalise is dead,” he said again, voice breaking for the first time I had ever heard. “Killed by the monster standing in front of you. The woman that I once called sister.” He pointed to the darkening ridge where Lisa stood. “And I’m not leaving until the one who murdered my sister takes her last breath.”

Her screen flashed as she submitted the work, and then it returned to her home screen. That’s when I saw it. A photo on her lock screen. Two girls, sitting side by side, flower crowns in their hair. Rebecca stared off to the side, serene. The other girl laughed right into the camera—amber hair, eyes full of light. “Is that your sister?” I asked, feeling something like recognition spark in my chest. Rebecca’s face changed. Not with pain—but with something deeper. A kind of stillness. “Was,” she said. “She died.”

But her bright smile and sweet personality got rid of any negative thoughts that I had. Christine Gyamfi Stanzolio is the Light to my Shadow.