Miss Marple's Novels & Stories

Alexa West glanced at him and said, "James, perhaps you are mistaken. Although my sister is not an alluring woman, she definitely doesn't match the word ugly. That definitely doesn't describe her as my sister." "Mr. Smith, the background of that person has been checked." At this moment, Max Holland brought a document. James Smith took it, and the goal was a photo. The person in the photo is very thin and thin, so thin that the cheeks on both sides are sunken. Although the sparse bangs cover the forehead, it still faintly reveals the mark of the scar. The eyes of the person in the photo are blank, and it is not as bright as it used to be.

As he delved into the records, he discovered a chapter in Marianne's life that had remained hidden from the public eye. Marianne's mother, Emma Carter, had faced several health crises over the years, leading to multiple hospitalizations. The detective, armed with this newfound knowledge, recognized the potential leverage it could provide. He dug deeper into Emily's medical history, seeking any information that could be used to manipulate Marianne into submission.

She pushes her hair behind her ears and smiled at Hugo as soon as she stood close to where we were. She glares at me and obviously rolled her eyes at my direction before she stared at Hugo. "Good evening Mr. Saintclare." The she begins to flirt. "I'm really sorry it took so long for me to come here sir. I'm the nurse that is sent here." Mara smiles. She prepared for this, obviously. The painted rosy cheeks, red cherry lipstick, her mascara-covered eyelashes. It’s far evident. No wonder she took too long to get here. I mean, what was she thinking? That she could seduce Hugo Saintclare inside a freaking hospital?

Trust me. So trusted that Mara shot tears in his eyes. For she knew this voice. She missed her for years. ‘Mara’; Mara died. The voice sounded again. Closer. “Mara, my darling.” A woman slowly stepped out of the shadows. Dark hair. Gentle eyes. The same smile as before. Mara could hardly breathe. Because the woman was impossible. She's been dead for years. It was her mother. Anna Weber.

And it all traced back to one woman. Mara Thompson. Team lead. Married and in her early thirties. I can't lie, Mara is a very beautiful woman. She turned heads in the hallway without trying, always on tight pencil skirts hugging her hips, silk blouses that strain just enough to show her smooth cleavage, and that innocent smile plastered on her face 24/7. I’d watched her for months. She was professional on the surface, yes, innocent looking too. But I’d caught a hint of her darkest secrets. The way her eyes lingered a second too long when someone asserted dominance in our meetings, the subtle flush when authority pressed tight against her.