Phillip Graves Novels & Stories

I didn’t make it ten steps down the hallway before my phone vibrated — once, then again, then in a rapid, continuous stream. Messages. Dozens of them. I frowned, unlocking the screen. And froze. Breaking Now: Exclusive Interview with Vivian Sinclair “Nathan Graveswell Was the Architect. I Was Just the Puppet.” Right under the headline was her photo — perfectly lit, beautifully tragic. Tears shining and chin lifted like a saint burned at the stake. My pulse stopped.

As I stared blankly at the gravestone, the elderly cemetery caretaker approached and struck up a conversation with me. "Sir, do you know Old Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan? I don't think I've ever seen you here before." It was such a simple question, yet it made my heart throb in pain all the same. After all, who am I when the place that should have belonged to Jessica's husband had already been engraved with Christian's name? Although I was standing under the sunlight, I felt like some lowly rat that ought to hide in the shadows. How could I stand before these gravestones when I didn't have a respectable identity that I could claim aloud?

confused, she says. “Don't ever tell anyone about it first. Because it might even hurt you.” He clarified. “Y-yes sir.” The girl replied. “Right now, i'm going to give you a personal task. I want you to find out everything about Philip. Be careful with your every move and don't reveal that you know anything about him. Do you understand?” “Yes sir.” Four days later, Linda met with Versa again to give him the information he was asking for. “I found out from his relatives that Philip Alvarez died on April 2015. And the cause of his death was tuberculosis.”

He’s close, she whispered, and my heart stumbled. The crunch of gravel broke the silence. I looked up, and my pulse leapt. Phillip was there. Standing near Reagan by the driveway, both of them laughing about something, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. The porch light caught his face, and I swear it made everything inside me tilt. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near me. “Good game, man,” Reagan said, clapping Phillip on the shoulder. “Killer save at the end. I thought we were done for.”

The door to the studio opened and a lady stepped in "Miss Mora, someone is here to see you" "Who?" Mora asked, she couldn't remember expecting anyone. The lady didn't respond, she led Mora to where Philip sat in the waiting room, "Mora" he stood on his feet. Mora was stunned "Philip, how long have you been waiting here?" she asked. Philip smiled sheepishly "I don't mind waiting all day here, remember you told me to look for your mother's grave, I found it" Mora mumbled under her breath "so fast"

"No way, are you trying to rupture the heating pipes again? You can't even bear to hurt a mouse, so why are you acting all scary now? "Be good, alright? Since you've been my wife for so many years, I'll make sure you're buried in the family cemetery." Each word struck like a loud slap across my face. His understanding of me, from the days we spent together, became the reason for his confidence in exacting such cruelty. I was so cold my entire body shook, and I couldn't help the coughs that racked through my body. "T-The national research station is nearby… Aren't you afraid of being found out?"

As they knew, Ziff was still young, and he had a long way to go. “Phelan? … Phelan?…get out of your bed! It's already late to sleep up to this hour!” Viv yelled as she tried to shout out to Phelan from a distant. Phelan grilled as she turned from side to side in her bed. And as well try to stretch her hands abit. She was already awake, but hardly had the energy to step out of her bed. She had no more friends than her bed. All times she overslept, getting late to her morning classes. Phelan held a book in her hands as she tried to get through it, although her eyes betrayed her as they looked heavy. On her ears were ear phones, dancing to some music by her head as she stared at the book held w

I looked away again toward the pale grey skies beyond Blackwood. Dead. Silas Graves was finally dead. The man who twisted my father’s will. The man who helped steal my inheritance. The man who stood beside Ma Felicia while my life was dismantled piece by piece. Gone. Finally, his nemesis has caught up with him, I ridiculed in my mind. My chest rose slowly. And to my own horror, I felt happy. A sort of dark humor not humanely satisfied. Aggressively happy. The kind of joy born from grief and rage and sleepless nights. The kind that frightened even me.

"Ms. Granger, your purchase of our staged death service is successful. When the time comes, we will erase your identity and arrange a death that meets your expectations so that you can leave without worries," the staff member on the other end of the phone said politely. I responded with a flat hum. "Set it for three days from now. I need time to pack my things." After hanging up, I dragged my aching body back toward the hospital room. I had barely reached the door when I ran into my husband, James Lambert. The moment he saw me, concern flooded his face as he hurried over.

“I found the records of everything she had done—the lies, the staged grief, the blood on her hands. I tried to make her stop, but she only grew more desperate by the day. So, I began an investigation of my own.” The court listens, stunned. “I found Doctor Philip.” The name lands heavily. Ravenna’s head snaps toward him. Her face drains of color. “He survived the accident,” Frederick continues, his voice low but steady. “The one recorded as fatal. He’s been in hiding for years, a ghost among the peaks of Mount Olympus. I found him during an expedition—it took months of silence to gain his trust. But when he finally spoke...he told me what happened to him.” Murmurs swell again.