Louise Carmen Notebook Novels & Stories

Christie may be six feet under but this is Christie’s heart and soul, in this hardbound A4 spiral notebook filled with heavy cardstock. Isa flipped through the pages. She was dumbfounded. Her jaw dropped to see sketches of what seemed like Dean Ramos with scribbles of red lipstick on top as if erasing the page. Some pages were torn and scratched with fingers leaving tiny blood spots. She flipped through and through, then a piece of card fell off. What Isa saw shocked her more than the images on the sketchbook. Her hair raised on its ends once more. A note that read— Dear Isa, ***

Their daughters ran ahead, laughing and pointing out anything that looked remotely historic, while Killian carried their son in a sling, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath against his chest. They stopped by the steps of the old library. Killian let Emma go ahead of him while he dug into the inside pocket of his coat. His fingers brushed the worn leather of the small notebook—aged, familiar, and filled with years of memories. She turned to him, her face soft with emotion. “This place still smells like ink and stress.” Killian stepped forward, offering her the notebook. “You dropped this once, remember? That first week.” Emma took it slowly, eyes narrowing. “That notebook…?”

Elena read the final lines aloud. The future cannot be entrusted to people who seek certainty above truth. Begin with the notebook. Nothing more. No signature. No explanation. Just quiet confidence. She carefully returned the letter to its envelope before reaching for the notebook. The leather cover bore no title. Only a small compass rose had been pressed into the front, so faint with age that it almost disappeared into the worn brown surface. She opened the first page. Rather than journal entries or confessions, she found short observations written over many years.

Her finger rested gently on Evelyn's smiling face. "So..." she whispered. "You finally remembered the notebook." She smiled—not with satisfaction, but with quiet anticipation. "Good." "Now come and find it." She reached into a drawer and removed an old blue leather notebook. Its worn cover matched Michael's description exactly. She turned to the first page. In elegant handwriting were three simple words. Property of Evelyn Carter. The woman closed the notebook slowly. "Let's see," she murmured, "whether you're ready to learn what you wrote... and what someone made sure you forgot."

The bathroom had expensive products arranged in order. The study room was where I found her. The desk was large and covered in papers that had been there before the accident, exactly as she had left them. Books on the shelves, business and law, but also history, also philosophy. And on the desk, half-hidden under a legal document, a single notebook. I picked it up carefully. It was filled with Vivienne's handwriting. I did not read it all. But I read enough to understand that Vivian Salvatore had been angry.

“He wrote the theory. You wrote the truth of it.” Zoe looked at the notebook. “They’re the same thing,” she said. “Just from different angles.” “Yes,” Bianca said. “That’s exactly what they are.” Zoe finished the apple. She stood up. “Lily wants to video call about Geneva outfits,” she said. “I’m going upstairs.” She left. The kitchen was quiet. Bianca looked at the notebook. At three pages that would be read in front of forty-three countries by the ten year old who had written them. At the words of a child who had been sick and had gotten better and understood exactly what that meant.

Vivian gestured the young girl to enter the room and said, “I don’t have much time, so let’s make it quick.” A glint of surprise flitted across the young girl’s eyes. However, she did not say anything and stepped into the room. After taking her seat on a chair near the window, she withdrew a black, worn-out notebook and the sticky note that Vivian had given to her yesterday from her bag. She flipped through the notebook and pulled out a piece of paper. Then, together with the sticky note, she put the paper on the table and asked, “Do you recognize this, Miss Carraway?”

a spiral-bound notebook? With exaggerated care, as if handling some priceless artifact, Caleb set the notebook on the table before her. Lila recognized it instantly - the very same journal he'd commandeered during their last confrontation, now being returned of his own volition. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting between the proffered item and Caleb's unreadable expression as she tried to divine the trap surely hidden within this unexpected olive branch. But Caleb merely nudged the notebook closer, then withdrew a pen from his jacket pocket. With deliberate movements, he flipped open to a blank page and began to write. Lila watched, mystified, as his meaty hand laboriously traced out a

Duarte remained standing, his eyes fixed somewhere past all of us, clearly already turning over thirty years of memory in search of anything he might have missed. My radio crackled, Tomas's voice cutting through the tension with the same steady calm that had carried all of us through the worst of this endless night. "Camila, the regional unit just finished processing the airstrip scene. They found something in Marisol's car before she disappeared, a notebook, handwritten, clearly hers. I think you are going to want to see it before you decide what happens next." "What is in it," I asked, though something in his voice already told me I would not like the answer.

A plan that, if executed correctly, would change everything. Back in her cell, Isabella sat down on the bed and opened a hidden compartment in the floor. Inside was a small notebook, its pages filled with her carefully scribbled notes. She had been tracking everything—names, contacts, dates, potential allies. The details were crucial, each line of writing a small piece of a much larger puzzle. She flicked through the pages, each entry a reminder of how far she had come. The notebook held her only connection to the outside world, her lifeline in the midst of the prison walls.