Later she would understand the crack was the sound of her life switching from one path to another. This new one a journey taking her far away from her one chance at real happiness.

36

What am I to do! What am I to do! Really, what am I to do?

As William hurried away from the park, racing along the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians as if he was in a video game, those words blew through his mind like a tornado. They never stopped coming even when he arrived safely back at his apartment.

He had tried to sleep. Tried to eat. Nothing helped. They came at him in a hundred different voices, most of them hysterical screams echoing in his head.

Morris had fallen by himself. He hadn’t touched the man. So could he be blamed? For a moment, he’d even picked up his cell to dial the police, his finger hovering over the send key after inputting the number. Then he reminded himself of how many innocents now served life sentences.

Phil Spector, the famous sixties music producer, for one. Lana Clarkson had been found collapsed on an antique chair in his home, dead from a gunshot wound. He claimed she’d committed suicide by accident. After viewing a documentary on the story, William agreed. Nineteen years he got for nothing. So celebrity and innocence didn’t help you a bit when fate came after you.

He bet Mr. Spector wondered what he should do on that night too, that things wouldn’t go his way probably never occurred to him. The more William considered his predicament, the more he understood things would never go his way. Not while he wore Orelia’s curse.

What am I to do? interrupted his mind’s meandering.

Here we are, death by madness, he thought.

Okay, to solve this, he needed to be logical.

First, if she had placed a hex on him, then Morris’ demise was connected to that. Just before he fell into the river, he’d alluded to her doing something to both of them. What that was and how she’d done it, he couldn’t imagine.

Hopefully he wasn’t seen.

Okay, decision made. He wouldn’t call anyone.

Next, how to get this bad luck monkey off his back.

Think William. Think.

What am I to do? came around again, smashing through his mind, wrecking-ball style. The Miley Cyrus video flashed before his eyes, her sitting on top of an actual wrecking-ball, swinging to and fro. His heart pulsed in panic—not because of the exhibitionist singer’s image, but because he hadn’t a clue what to do next.

Focus William. For God’s sake, focus.

Okay, focused.

His life was a mess, his actions due to crazy envy that had grown out of hand. The negative reviews, canceling events, stalking her and Morris, were small potatoes which had failed anyway. And contemplating murder? Was that his writer’s mind working overtime? Did he have it in him?

If you was a story protagonist, what would you do? he asked himself.