Writers Notes Novels & Stories

Alina unfolded the paper in the back of the car, and by the time she reached the last line, her hands had stopped shaking — because they had gone completely still. Victoria's note was six lines long. No greeting. No signature. Just six lines, written in the kind of handwriting that was precise enough to be deliberate:

He wiped his eyes. "We're going home, Cale. My home." Cale nodded. He pointed to the notebook sticking out of the bag on the floor. "You want the book?" Cale nodded. Elion handed it to him. Cale opened it. He flipped past the entries about the fire, about the bridge. He found a blank page. He picked up the pen from the console. He wrote. His handwriting was jagged, like a child's. Entry 59: The Storm. Cost: The Kiss.

Ashton, sensed something was wrong took the note with hardened face. The handwriting was short and neat, yet its meaning was cruel: “Witnesses can be replaced.” ***

There were five of them, and I’d been working my way through them for the past three days, ice pack on my head and a mug of tea in hand. The writer, a scientist who signed off on each entry as E. J. Thatch, had first-grader handwriting skills. I’d spent the first day just trying to make out what he’d written in the first journal entry. By now, though, I was starting to be able to tell the “q”s from the “f”s and the “l”s from the “i”s. From what I could tell, he’d been so excited to start this project when it began.

They scattered. Celeste stayed where she was, flipping open her notebook and jotting down the last of the adjustments she’d noticed during the run-through. The pen moved cleanly, gliding over the page with a practiced ease. No cross-outs. No frantic arrows. Just sequence, timing, and notes that would later become something other people leaned on. Her handwriting was neat, the kind of script that made even chaos look like it belonged in a museum exhibit on order.

The air between us crackles. I tap the folder. “This is missing the part where I get to burn things.” He reaches over, flips to a blank page at the back, and hands me a Montblanc. “Write whatever you want,” he says. “I’ll sign it in blood if it makes you feel better.” I stare at the pen. I write one line in block letters: THEO WHITFORD WILL BEG BEFORE THIS IS OVER. I slide it back. He signs beneath it without reading. His handwriting is sharp, impatient, beautiful.

I placed it aside then the next document was a random paper definitely in someone else’s handwriting. Harper Holmes seems promising. She cleans the house really well, but I am afraid she is rather very nosy. I had a feeling it was Dominic’s review with the help of Rebecca. It felt good to see that he had faith in me. I tossed that paper aside and found another paper with a grid drawn on it, and my name was on top of the grid. It had nothing else on that first page but the grid and my name. The table had ‘Date’, ‘Action’, ‘Witnesses’, ‘Action Taken’, and ‘Notes’ filled in each column. Then, I flipped the page and saw a bunch of lengthy words. I knew if I wanted to read them, I was going to be

Especially when they started digging. Her gaze shifted to the table, and she picked up the second note. It was folded. With a deep breath, she carefully unfolded it and began to read. The words on the page were not Edmond's; they were handwritten by someone else. It was familiar. So April looked at the last part of the note. The only thing in the note that seemed to be typed out. “May Wolfe, Grade 8. Winning submission for the 'The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword' contest.” April read out loud.

I had saved it for the last and I pulled the box towards me. The white paper sat daintily on a raised surface and that was when I realized that there was another carton inside the box. I shrugged and picked up the note. I ran through the handwriting; wiry and articulate. It must have been written by the makers. This was a fancy idea. But when I started reading it, I began to think otherwise.

Taped to a worn notebook. On the inside cover, Vivienne had written: If this reaches your hands, it means I chose to trust you more than the law. That means you’re the only one who can act outside it. Isolde opened the notebook. The pages weren’t just names. They were roles. Ghostwriters. Procurement liaisons. Fund managers. Judges. Each annotated in Vivienne’s sharp, slanted hand. Some crossed out. Some circled. And then, one entry near the end had different ink.