Suicide Notes Book Novels & Stories

Behind the card there was a number and Jonathan's initials. I compared the signature and understood that the notebook had been his at some point. That could only be a terrible joke. A very ugly game. But I found myself flipping through the pages, trying to find Suzane's name. Maybe that was Jonathan's Death Note, his little reckoning notebook. But only Hunter was a well-known name for me. All the others were mere whimsical handwriting. I started thinking about the possibilities for that notebook to exist. If it were a list of traitors, then it would make sense for Hunter to be on it.

“His hands are obviously a musician’s hands. Not a stringed instrument, so, probably a piano. Family issues can be a factor in his early arrival at school as I have observed in my first week. He doesn’t like spending time with his mother and his father doesn’t want him to have a late record. “Because his parents have issues, he had an expensive lunch but chose to walk instead of taking the car. He came from his mother’s house, rode a taxi to his father’s before coming here, and arrived at the scene. “He left his backpack and coat right there,” she pointed at my belongings; “and ran to the rooftop to try to stop the poor woman from jumping but obviously failed, hence the corpse. He’s holding

The place was clean and tidy, but the state of it was not at its best compared to the entire mansion and its decoration. What could be the reason that out of all the other places this was the only one that is not being taken care of? My eyes fell on the bookshelves and curiously I began to take a look at the books. Most of them were either poetry or plays, only a few were novels. One or two even had handwritten notes on them. At first, I ignored the notes but then suddenly my eyes fell on the name written t the end of one of the notes. Carolina....

“Belle… what is this?” “It’s nothing. Just… old things. Memories. Please, Draven, I’m begging you. Don't look inside. It’s not you. It’s not us. It’s who I used to be.” “I need to know what they are using against you,” he said gently, but firmly. He opened the book. He flipped through the pages. Most were about hunger, about cold nights, about working until her feet ached. But then his fingers paused. There were little sticky notes tucked between pages, placed there by whoever sent it, marking specific entries.

She ended the call. She crossed to the bed. She sat beside Lorenzo. She picked up the seventh notebook. She held it. "Thank you," she said. "For writing it down." "It needed somewhere to be," he said. "Yes," she said. "It did." She put it on the nightstand. She looked at the April night through the open window. The arc was complete. The full shape of her father finally held. Not a wound. Not a mission. A man who had trusted the right people and been killed before he finished and had left behind a daughter and a wife and a man with thirty dark blue notebooks who had all carried different pieces of the same thing forward.

“We need a suicide note. Leon, check if she has a laptop in the house.” Leon went upstairs and came back with a laptop. “Found one,” he said. “Open her notes and start typing the note,” Daniel said. “Make it sound like she was depressed because she’s been a junior reporter for years and wanted a promotion. Say she tried to ruin a happy home with a fake story and couldn’t handle it anymore. Something like: ‘I couldn’t go on with it anymore. That’s why I decided to commit suicide. I hope I’m doing well in heaven. Love, Christina Vale xoxo.’”

Maris nodded and obeyed. Anais placed the case on the table and took a deep breath. She pried it open. Inside was a notebook—handwritten, leather-bound, its pages filled with technical notes, dates, and… letters. Dozens of them. From the Violin. To her daughter. Anais’s fingers trembled as she turned the pages. Some of the writing was frantic. Some neat. Some tear-streaked. “You weren’t meant to survive. You were meant to save them all.”

And seeing as I’ll be in here till who knows how long, I'd better keep myself busy. I pull the heavy table away from the wall, and it moves away a bit. The book falls to the ground, and I pick it up. The parts of it that was hidden behind the table's leg isn’t dusty. The leather has been marked by the pressure of the table’s leg against it for God knows how long, but asides that, the book is in pretty good condition. On the front of the book is a small note written in the red leather with black ink. “Life is a story. Document every day. From Mom to her precious Salvatore.”

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But this was not what Caitlin wanted: she needed to heal Scarlet, not kill her. As she finished yet another book and slid it aside, with still no mention of healing anywhere, she began to feel a sense of despair. She lifted the final book on the stack, a small, leather-bound volume with a red spine, entitled De Fascino Libri Tres by Leonardo Vairo. Caitlin summoned her knowledge of Latin, and knew that translated to: Three Books of Charms, Spells and Sorceries.