Quotes Notebook Novels & Stories

I had been at it since Marcus left that morning. The notebook beside my keyboard was covered in numbers and supplier names and question marks and lines crossing out the question marks where I had found answers and more question marks where I hadn't. My phone was warm from being held so long. I had it wedged between my ear and my shoulder while I typed with both hands, waiting for someone on the other end to pick up, and when they did I wrote down what they told me and crossed it against what Marcus had quoted us and wrote that number down too with a small circle around it. The circles were adding up.

And he didn't even need to ask because he knew this snitch wouldn't know what it was. “You've been very helpful, Jonas,” Snyder said after brooding on these things for a while. And Jonas smiled, revealing impeccably white teeth before saying, “Hey, you get what you pay for, Mr. Snyder... I can leave now, though, right?” “Give me a minute, let me recap all you've told me to make sure I've gotten everything right,” Snyder said before getting out a book and own which he carried everywhere with him to take notes. He had a photographic memory, but, as the old saying went, 'Writing things down was always better than storing them in one's head’. Although Snyder was now not sure if that was how the

He nodded once and stepped back, hands folded behind him. It had been months since I last set foot in this room. The first time I came here after Quincy’s arrest, I’d only managed to stand in the doorway. I couldn’t cross that threshold. His jacket was still hanging by the closet. His sneakers—scuffed and half unlaced—sat at the foot of the bed as if he’d kick them off just before falling asleep. On his desk sat an opened notebook, filled with his handwriting. They were notes, ideas, equations, doodles of half-finished things. I couldn’t touch any of it. But now… now, I needed to.

I left the bar with gravel in my shoes and plans forming slow and certain. Back at my condo the air smelled like old coffee and filtered heat. I poured a drink and didn’t touch it. The laptop glowed; the encrypted drives hummed. I opened the ledger I’d been keeping — small transfers, shadow companies with plausible names, contracts with clauses that blurred purpose. Quentin had always been careless with details in ways arrogance can buy you: an extra zero misplaced, a memo filed in the wrong folder, a name left where it shouldn’t be. The files weren’t a smoking gun yet. They were breadcrumbs. But you follow breadcrumbs if you want answers. I catalogued dates, amounts, potential witnesses. If

Startled, I quickly shrank back, but it was too late. He strode out, grabbed me by the back of my collar, and hauled me in like a little chick. "Quinn, this notebook is yours?" I was forced to look straight into Nathan's overpowering eyes. "So what if it is?" I shot back, jutting my chin out. "Can't I just doodle whatever I want?" "Doodle?" Nathan shoved the notebook in my face. "Not even a pro coach could come up with these tactics. And a laundry girl drew them?"

I watched as she took out a couple of popcorn from the kitchen cabinet and I was about to lend her a hand when I noticed a note pinned against their refrigerator. I frowned and read it loudly, "An advice for my Quinn today: Don't forget the dirty talks you tolerantly trained for a year from the mythological Sexopedia we discovered thousands of years ago under my bed. Love lots, K.S.?" I turned to Quinn confused and I found her gaping at the note with a shocked expression on her face. "Who's K.S.?" I asked, trying not to think of the horrible idea of this person was talking about on the note. My Quinn? Sexopedia? Dirty talks? It seemed like this person was making a sexual point.

Every words that came out of his mouth, I made sure not to skip a single of it when I wrote down on my notebook. "Hey? Do you have an extra pen?" I heard Quir whispered and his elbow was leaning into my desk. "Wait, I'll check." I took my pen case out of my bag, to see if I could lend him anything. "Here, have a try." I handed him a ballpen to let him try if it's still working or not and when he tried it on his notes, it works. "Thanks," he said. "No prob." I focus again on the discussion because I might miss a part that will result confusion to me at the end of the discussion. I always made sure I understand whatever lesson we discussed so that there will be no problem if I review myself.

Don had brought the notebook from the bedroom, which was itself a signal: the contents were ready to be shared. Ernest looked at him. "I'm listening." Don opened the notebook. He did not read from it—Ernest could see that he was using it as a reference, checking his own thinking against what he had written. Don did not need to read from the notebook to remember what he had found. The notebook was not a script. It was a record. The record confirmed that the memory was accurate.

I just don’t have the strength to do it. “Do you have the link sent to you?” He asks me. I pull out my laptop out under the table and place it on top of it. He hands me his notes while my device loading up. “The instruction says you can open your notes by taking the quiz. So you don’t have to review much.” He adds, “It’s the Science quiz right?” He asks. And I give a nod as an answer.