Murder by Manuscript

Harper Lawson’s mornings started the same way—coffee brewed strong enough to jolt the dead, a cluttered desk buried in old case files, and the faint hum of police scanners filling her small apartment. Investigative reporting was in her blood, a legacy passed down from a father who had chased stories until they nearly swallowed him whole.

Yet, as much as Harper thrived on the thrill of exposing hidden truths, the monotony of unsolved cases wore on her. Each folder represented a life interrupted, a mystery left hanging in the cold archives of the FBI.

Today, her focus was on a particularly frustrating case—the 2019 murder of Erin Caldwell. A young woman found dead in her Chicago apartment, no signs of forced entry, no suspects, no justice. Harper had covered it extensively, pushing for leads, challenging authorities, but nothing had stuck.

A notification chimed on her phone, pulling her from the depths of the case file.

Lunch at Rick’s? Got something you need to see.

—Madison

Madison Carter was Harper’s oldest friend, an artist with a knack for finding the bizarre in everyday life. They had met in college—Harper with her nose in textbooks, Madison with paint-splattered clothes and wild theories about the world. Their friendship had been built on late-night conversations and an insatiable curiosity about life’s darker corners.

Harper typed a quick reply and grabbed her coat. Whatever Madison had to show her, it was rarely boring.

Rick’s Diner was a relic of the past, with checkered floors and a jukebox that hadn’t worked in years. Harper slid into the booth across from Madison, whose table was cluttered with sketchbooks and half-finished lattes.

“I thought you gave up coffee,” Harper teased, nodding at the cup.

Madison grinned. “I gave up giving up coffee.”

After ordering, Madison reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. She placed it on the table between them, her expression a mix of excitement and apprehension.

“I picked this up at a flea market last week. No author, no publication details, nothing. Just a title—The Artist of Death.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sounds like light reading.”

“More like disturbing.” Madison leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s written from the perspective of a killer. But that’s not the creepy part. The details in this book... they reminded me of something.”

Harper’s curiosity was piqued. “What do you mean?”

“A case you covered a few years ago—the Erin Caldwell murder. Remember that one?”

Harper felt a chill despite the warmth of the diner. Of course, she remembered. Erin’s case had been a knot she couldn’t untangle.

Madison continued, “There are things in this book that weren’t public. Specifics about how the body was found, the way the door was left slightly ajar, even the type of knife used. It’s all in there.”

Harper reached for the book, her fingers brushing the worn cover. “And you just found this at a flea market?”

“Yeah. The guy selling them wouldn’t say much. Just that he had more if I was interested.”

The weight of the book in her hands felt heavier than it should have. This wasn’t just a story—it was a window into a mind that knew too much.

“I have a few more at my apartment if you want to take a look,” Madison offered.

Harper nodded slowly, her mind already racing through the possibilities. An anonymous author with knowledge of unsolved crimes. Was this a confession, a taunt, or something much worse?

Whatever it was, Harper knew one thing for certain—she couldn’t let it go.

Harper drummed her fingers against the book’s leather cover, her journalist instincts firing on all cylinders. If Madison was right—and the details matched real, unsolved cases—then someone out there knew more than they should.

“Let’s go to your apartment,” Harper said, standing. “I need to see the rest of these.”

Madison nodded, stuffing the book back into her bag. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Madison’s apartment was a controlled kind of chaos—canvases stacked against the walls, a coffee table cluttered with paints, and a half-finished sculpture of what looked like a skull. Harper had always found comfort in the mess; it was the opposite of her own sterile, fact-driven world.

Madison knelt beside a wooden crate near the couch and pulled out four more books, each identical in their plain, leather-bound covers.

“I picked up five in total,” she said. “I read through two. The others, I couldn’t bring myself to open.”

Harper grabbed the next book in the stack. The title embossed on the cover read The Perfect Crime.

She flipped through the pages, her pulse quickening as she skimmed a detailed account of a break-in gone wrong. The way the victim had fought. The exact moment their breath stilled.

And then her stomach twisted.

This wasn’t just any home invasion murder. She knew this case.

“Jesus, Madison,” Harper muttered. “This is the Stillwater case.”

“The one in Arizona?”

“Yeah. A man broke into a woman’s house and killed her when she tried to escape. No forced entry. No fingerprints. The police were stumped.” Harper ran her fingers over the text, her breath uneven. “But this book—this book knows things that were never released to the public.”

Madison swallowed. “So what does that mean?”

Harper sat back, her mind racing. “Either the author is connected to law enforcement… or they’re the killer.”

Silence filled the room.

Harper closed the book, taking a steadying breath. “Where did you say you got these again?”

“The flea market off 42nd,” Madison said. “The guy selling them was old—sixties, maybe? White hair, rough voice. He didn’t tell me his name, just that he had more books if I was interested.”

Harper grabbed her phone. “Let’s go. I need to talk to this guy.”

By the time they reached the flea market, the sun had dipped behind the buildings, casting long shadows over the rows of vendors. Harper scanned the stalls, looking for anything that resembled a bookseller.

“Over there,” Madison whispered, pointing toward an empty table near the edge of the market. A small wooden sign rested against a chair, the words Rare Books & Collectibles written in fading ink. But the seller? He was nowhere to be seen.

Harper approached the table, heart pounding. “Are you sure this was the spot?”

“Positive,” Madison said. “He had stacks of books right here.”

But now, the table was bare. No books. No seller. Nothing but the faint smell of old paper lingering in the air.

Harper’s gut told her this wasn’t a coincidence.

She turned to Madison. “I think someone knew we were coming.”

Harper spent the rest of the night combing through the books, cross-referencing every case she could think of. The deeper she dug, the worse it got.

Every single book matched an unsolved murder. Every single one had details that had never been made public.

And then she found something that made her blood run cold.

The last book in the stack wasn’t about an old case.

It was about a future one.

A murder that hadn’t happened—yet.

And the victim’s name was someone Harper knew.