Suicide Notes Book Novels & Stories

She moved past the bookshelf, her fingers brushing old business manuals, legal briefs and financial files. But then something strange happened. One of the books wasn't aligned properly which made Isla curious and she pulled it out. A soft clunk echoed as a black leather notebook fell out from behind it. Isla froze on the spot. The pages were brittle with time. Most were scribbled with Claire’s brutal written notes in shorthand. There were names, payouts, hospital files and doctors' names including the name of Alina Shore and Elara Jensen. But one page near the end… stopped Isla’s breath.

The notes app. I clicked it open and it took a while for all the notes to assemble. Most of them were mindless ramblings and the occasional hooker’s number. I took my time and went through all of them, but there was nothing of importance. The phone was useless after that, there was nothing of value anymore, just photos of drunken nights with different types of women. Mark was truly living it up with all the blackmail money he was getting from me and others. I deleted the notes and placed the phone down.

Instead he raised the note in his hand. “Suicide note.”

I looked down at the note, my hands trembling as I read the words written in familiar handwriting: “Kill her before he comes back.” The handwriting was identical to the threatening notes I’d received before. The same person who’d been watching me, who’d sent me those warnings, had also ordered my assassination. “This is the same handwriting,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “From the notes I got before.” Aiden’s expression darkened. “You got threatening notes? When? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” “I thought I was being paranoid,” I admitted. “I didn’t have proof, and with everything else happening with the elders…”

That truth lingered long after others looked away. Still, the truth of my rebirth stayed hidden - just like the way I was killed. Yet both lay underneath, untouched. Back at the desk, I opened the notebook along with the secure tablet. Thoughts spilled onto pages about the evening mess - comments tossed around, changes in loyalties among directors, how Gwen could barely hide her anger. The mirror was forgotten as lines filled the paper. After that, the folder came open - inside, everything about how I died before. My notes stared back, piece by piece.

“Why they didn’t deserve her. But maybe… I can use that, but how did she…?.” “Never mind that, we’re here to talk about the mission. You’ll have to build trust.” Zie said. “Then I’ll do it.” I stood up and walked to the drawer beside the bed. I pulled it open. The notebook was still there where I last left it. I flipped it open to the page with the list. Poison. Stabbing. Arranged murder. Push down the stairs. I tore it out slowly, careful not to damage the rest of the book.

Before my life became a nightmare. The note read: "Lily Morrison—estimated $5M inheritance + properties. Recently orphaned, emotionally vulnerable. Isolated. Perfect target." The album fell from my hands and hit the floor. "He was hunting me," I whispered. "Before we even met, he was already hunting me." Tony picked up the album carefully, his face pale. He flipped through more pages, his expression growing darker with each photo. "There are at least fifteen women here with detailed notes," he said quietly. "Some of them are marked 'deceased.' But others..." He looked up at me. "Others say things like 'potential target' or 'requires more research' or 'backup plan.'"

A photo of a handwritten note that was smudged and wet, making the contents indecipherable I froze, staring numbly at the screen. “Authorities recovered the body of Nyla Kingsley Briggs early this morning beneath the Blackridge Cliffs. While the preliminary report suggests suicide, investigators recovered several personal items at the scene, including a pair of red heels, a handgun, a bottle believed to contain poison, and a handwritten note. Officials have declined to comment further pending a full investigation.” I couldn’t breathe for seconds. The room spun, and I sank into the chair to control my drowsiness. No. No, no, no. I can't believe this.

Slowly lowering the book, she kept her thumb against the spine. “You look surprised,” she said, “Did you think my reading list was strictly limited to theological texts?” “I just didn’t think a nun would be tapped in on such material,” I admitted, leaning against the wooden railing. “Osamu Dazai was a suicidal individual and quite problematic. It’s a beautifully dark book, but heavy.”

Her dark hair fanned out, sticking to the porcelain; her eyes stared up, empty, accusing. My scream lodged in my throat, a silent thing that choked me as I dropped my bag, keys clattering on the tile. She was gone—suicide, the coroner said later—but she’d left me something. A note, folded tight on the sink, my name scrawled in her shaky hand. I unfolded it, hands trembling, and read her goodbye for the millionth time. It wasn’t just a farewell; it was a confession, a map to this hell I’m in now.