One Arranged Murder Novels & Stories

The death of Owen McLean was still a source of worry for him, and all through the meal he had with Owen’s wife, he couldn’t take his mind off Owen’s death. Owen is the fifth person that has been murdered in the same fashion, all of them debtors to the bank. He decided to call his friend, Carl Whitefield, the loans director at the bank. He picked up the phone on the bedside table, and dialed his friend’s home number. “Hello Carl” Summers said, as soon as the line was picked up on the other end. “Hello John how are you doing?” Whitefield said. “I’m doing good, and you?” Summers said.

It didn’t matter anymore. But still, deep down, a part of her refused to believe it was coincidence. He had known where she would be. He had been watching. And that assassin—the timing was too perfect. Maybe he wasn’t the one being hunted. Maybe they had been watching her, too. The thought made her stomach twist.

We grew middle-aged, but we still had no answers. I wiped my tears. The method was the same. It was very likely the same killer striking again. The mirror on the table reflected the crowd gathered on the first floor. One of them was a man with a scar on his face. The more I looked at him, the more familiar he seemed. It was my neighbor, Warren Lane. Then who was the body? I rushed downstairs. I pushed through the crowd on the first floor. Warren tried to run. He looked panicked. His reaction made me even more certain that he was involved in the case.

“When.” The answer hit hard enough to twist his mouth. “Understood.” He killed the call. “Murder,” Ellan said. The word landed flat, heavy. “Another body. Same pattern. North edge of the Valley.” Cordone swore under his breath, pushing up to his feet. I shoved off the wall. “Then deal with it.” Ellan slid his phone back into his pocket, slow, deliberate, calm as ever. “We are. I’m calling Haden.”

“Police report have confirmed that the mangled body that is found yesterday at the city last evening is similar to the method of killings of one of the controversial serial murderer, Andrew Mendez, 16 years ago at Delhi province. However, based on our initial investigation, the convicted murderer is already died. This is Kamilla Riz Dela Torre, SNS News reporting.”

She’s yelling at me, blaming me for everything. "She wants to kill him!" she shouts, her words full of venom. "She’s just after his money, his property! She’s not responsible for what happened!" Before I can react, Mr. Grey is there, his voice a sharp command that cuts through the chaos. "Get a grip and shut your mouth!" he roars, his voice filled with authority. Mrs. Russel stumbles back, tears streaming down her face as she retreats to the far corner of the room, her accusations still hanging in the air. Mr. Grey sighs deeply, rubbing his face before turning back to us, his expression weary. "Sorry about her," he mutters. "She’s… not right in the head."

These actions cannot be explained, Navpreet,’ said the inspector gloomily, casting an eye on the mountains. The sub-inspector gave a stiff nod and carefully studied the inspector who seemed to be lost in contemplation. ‘From what I have seen, murders are of two types,’ said the inspector, the tips of his fingers coming together. ‘First are the unplanned ones, committed by people who were suffocated in some way by the acts of the would-be victims. When they see an opportunity, their fear is eclipsed by the pain they have suffered and they strike.’

"Can I see the picture of the murder victim? I want to look at it before you leave." Officer Reynolds digs around in the vanilla folder and hands it to Mr. Davis. I catch a quick glimpse, and it's enough to make me vomit. Five stabs are in his midsection. Gerald McLaren's blood surrounded his body on all sides of that picture. And all the while, I'm haunted by how these events will haunt Jeremy and me. But mostly, I fear that the events of this morning will be the reason Jeremy Davis will actually commit suicide.

I lowered my eyes, my throat thick. Halstrom pressed on, his voice cutting. “And as if that weren’t enough, Santorini’s been murdered. Within days of each other.” He spread his hands across the desk, fingers splayed. “This can't be a coincidence. It must have been orchestrated." I swallowed hard, my gaze flicking toward Damon. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed with focus as if contemplating on something. “Who would move that fast?” Damon asked, his voice low. Halstrom’s gaze lingered on the both of us before he answered. “The very name that keeps appearing in fragments. Dennis.”

Martin complimented the captain on his forensic aware ness and it had the same effect as stroking a mutt while cooing good dog." Murphy was now his friend for life and he giddily briefed them how his officers, responding to a neighbor's 911 about shouts and screams, had discovered the body and the postcard and how one of his sergeants had spot- ted the blood-soaked perpetrator, Luis Camacho, wedged behind the oil tank in the basement. The guy wanted to con- fess on the spot and Murphy had the good sense to videotape