Released from prison after five years, Bradley Jackson is now equipped with rich medicinal knowledge and martial art skills that could only be blessed from the heavens. With these skills, Bradley would be capable enough to destroy those who have put him through hell and rise up from below!

Dave is a poor boy whose father is no more. The only one he has left is his mother. Everything Dave does is for the survival of himself and most importantly, his mother. Dave leaves his former job as a mechanic and goes to a big company to become an errand boy to Mr Adams, the owner of the company. Everything goes smoothly for Dave and his mother but... What happens when Mr Adams makes a bet with his friend on Dave's mother? Read more to find out.

Betrayed and imprisoned, Althea's only solace was the promise of revenge against Oscar Williams, the man she loved but whom had ruined her life. Then, she met him - a enigmatic figure who offered her a chance at freedom and vengeance. But as she worked to unravel the threads of Oscar's deceit, Althea began to realize that nothing was as it seemed. The truth she sought was a mirage, and the lies she uncovered threatened to destroy everything she thought she knew about herself. Now, Althea must confront the darkness within herself and face the ultimate question. "What happens when the lies you've believed are more comforting than the truth?"

A young, ambitious journalist investigates a mysterious disappearance in a small, secluded town, only to uncover a dark conspiracy that threatens to expose the town's deepest secrets.The shrill ring of my cell phone jolted me from my reverie, and I snatched it up, hoping it might be the call I had been waiting for. "Hello, this is Emma." "Emma, it's Sam from the Willowbrook Herald," a familiar voice crackled over the line. "I've got a story you might be interested in." I sat up straighter, my pulse quickening. Sam was a seasoned local reporter whom I had collaborated with in the past. If he was calling me directly, it meant he had something juicy. "What do you have?" I asked, my fingers already poised to take notes. "There's been a strange disappearance in my town," Sam said, his voice low and tinged with unease. "A local factory worker named Mark Sutton vanished without a trace two weeks ago. The sheriff is calling it a routine missing persons case, but I've got a feeling there's more….

“Manuel Salazar, you are under arrest for the disappearance of Mrs. Cassidy Jones," the police officer said as he handcuffed me. Manuel Salazar is a sex worker, a male prostitute who f**ks the wives of the most popular men in Manhattan. He was the last person to see Cassidy alive after they spent the night at their usual spot, but he didn't kill her; he was being framed, but who would believe him? No body, no murder weapon, just a hotel room covered in blood and his DNA all over. He has to prove his innocence or risk going to prison for a crime he didn't commit. His lawyer Jill Baker is one of the best criminal attorneys in New York, and she suspects foul play, she is his only chance to walk away acquitted of all charges. The clock is ticking. Will they solve this crime in time?

I'd cremated thirteen hundred corpses. But the one I handled today opened its eyes in front of the furnace door. I was a cremator at a funeral home. I'd been doing this job for eight years and seen all sorts of strange things—the body suddenly sitting back, the furnace backfiring and exploding, and family members crying until they go into shock. But I'd never seen a dead person open their eyes. Even more eerie, he looked at me and twitched the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a mere flicker, but a smile. The kind that said, "I knew you'd come." I instinctively stepped back and knocked over the tool cart. When I looked up again, the furnace door had already closed, and the flame ignited automatically. Through the observation window, I saw that person's body tumbling in the fire, like a live fish thrown into a frying pan. I wasn't sure if he was really alive. But I was certain of one thing—the death certificate of this person was forged by me. Because I needed his identity to bury another person.

I’d been listening in on other people’s secrets. So far, more than twelve hundred of them. But today was different. What I heard wasn’t a secret. It was death. I was a hydrology tech with the Riverton City Water Resources Department. I worked at the river monitoring station about two miles downstream from Greenwood Dam. Every day, I logged water level, flow rate, turbidity, and keep an underwater sonar array—fifteen years old and cranky—running. That array was built to track fish migration. Then three years ago, after a software update, it started picking up something else. Human voices. Not speech. But the sound a body would make when it sunk and the vocal cords shivered one last time. Muffled. Short. Like a rock hitting a mud pit. Or like someone trying to scream underwater, with the river water flooding the throat and grinding the words to mush, leaving just one frequency—somewhere between 400 and 600 hertz, lasting 0.3 to 0.8 seconds—then dropping to zero. I knew exactly what it was. I’d heard it more than twelve hundred times. Every time a body drfited from upstream and passed the sonar array, the system would flag the strange vibration in the water and save a voiceprint file. For three years, this river had delivered an average of about 1.1 bodies a day—jumpers, drownings, the ones tossed in, and the ones no one would ever identify. I numbered them and stored them on a hard drive. I never called the cops. Not because I was cold-blooded. But because those recordings could be sold.