Miss Marple's Novels & Stories

“They give you the illusion that information belongs to you.” Bennett's eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” The woman looked at her. “Dr. Mara Vale.” The name struck something in my memory. I did not know where. But I knew it. Not from personal experience. From a file. A photograph. A page. Something. “Mara Vale,” I repeated. Her eyes shifted to me. “Yes.” “Researcher.” “Yes.” “Neuroscience.” “Yes.” “Children's clinical trials.” She smiled. “Not officially.”

She couldn’t fathom why the doctor’s questions necessitated privacy, and her instinct was to have Ryan stay by her side. She shook her head. “I don’t mind answering with Ryan here. He’s my husband.” Dr. Lawrence nodded, acknowledging Scarlet’s decision. “Very well, then. Mrs. Marchetti, have you ever been diagnosed with any mental issues or disorders?” Scarlet’s eyes widened, taken aback by the doctor’s question. She glanced at Ryan, a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze, before regaining her composure. “About a year ago, I suffered a miscarriage, and after seeing a therapist, I was told I had depression,” she admitted softly.

Scrolled to the most recent timestamped clip—the vanity room call with Voss. He hit play. Mara watched in silence. Face unreadable until the end, when Mom looked into the camera and said “Hello, darlings.” Mara exhaled hard through her nose. “That’s her,” she said. “The client. The one who never showed her face during the pregnancy. Only lawyers. Only contracts. Only money.” She sank into the armchair across from us. Hands clasped tight in her lap.

THE EVALUATION scarlet The psychologist's office was designed to be calming—soft lighting, comfortable chairs, a box of tissues strategically placed on the side table. But there was nothing calming about being here, about having every aspect of my life dissected and analyzed by a stranger who would then report her findings to a judge. Dr. Ellen Marsh sat across from me with a tablet and a kind but clinical expression. She was probably in her fifties, with graying hair and the sort of gentle demeanor that probably made most people feel safe opening up to her.

Clarissa scrolled through contacts on her phone until she found the name she was looking for. Dr. Marlowe. A middle-aged female doctor who used to work at an illegal abortion clinic before quietly retiring due to licensing issues. They met a few years ago at a charity event—and Clarissa was smart enough to maintain contact with people who were... useful in certain situations. Clarissa pressed the call button. Two rings before a hoarse voice answered. "Yes?" "Dr. Marlowe," Clarissa greeted in a professional voice but with urgency behind it. "This is Clarissa Sterling. We met at—"

Von POV County Morgue, 9:15 AM The viewing room was cold. Marcus stood beside me, silent support as the medical examiner pulled back the sheet. The woman on the table was approximately Marissa's age, height, build. Dark hair. Similar facial structure. If you squinted. If you didn't look too closely. If you wanted to believe. "That's her," I said, voice hollow. "That's my wife." The ME Dr. Reynolds, on Marcus's payroll nodded sympathetically. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Castellano. Would you like a few minutes alone?"

I smiled before I pounded my pants to stave off the couples lurking beneath my genital. She flings her middle up and then tosses herself onto the chair. I sat near her desk and then dug my sanity with all the remembrance I bought from Grace's support. Marina opened her computer to search every word I dictate but I decided to move myself to stand behind her instead. "He's Pakistani, tall, clean cut, and shaved retard, any man you see that fits her information?" "That's what I'm doing now Sherlock" She swipe right until she founds a document that was related to Grace's words as she turn the pages.

Not even excluding Jayden. What stole everyone's attention was a human just like them but not exactly the two men expected to see. It was Maria, also known as Mr Grumpy personal doctor. A little smile danced on her plump tomato-coloured lips which held the perfect shade of red that matched with her high-low sleeveless dress. She exceptionally stole that moment as every eye present there was fixed upon her.

There are also beautiful vases and tulips, tied in purple laces. Marisa smiled at me from distance. She went to me, so I subconsciously waved my hands to her and smiled widely. I looked at her, head to toe and I wonder if I can do the same as her if I become a model? I can’t imagine myself doing the things I didn’t wished. Maybe it will be a challenge for my personality since I really have the opposite taste in fashion. I offered her a hand which she gladly shook it with me. “Are you Annette?” she asked while her eyes roaming the surroundings, which busy people are starting to decorate the mini stage. I nod gently that made her gasp in disbelief. “So, how’s Kendrick?”

“God, you got us so scared. We thought something bad had happened to you. “He says, and my eyes fly open. Why is he talking like me being soaked in blood isn't alarming… I begin to wonder in confusion, but my breath gets knocked out of my lungs when I look down at my dress. There's no trace of blood. It's just stained with dirt. I turn to the mirror in shock, but my reflection just looks messy and dirty. Where did all the blood go? My lips are void of any trace of blood, my once blood-stained fingers and talon nails, are now cloth in dirt and are normal, and my once bloody dress is now dirty. Just dirty. “Miss. Eliza, we may have to get a statement from you. “One of the cops behind my parent